


Pull of the Moon

by BloodyIvar



Series: Pull of the Moon [1]
Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-13
Updated: 2017-09-21
Packaged: 2018-12-27 10:56:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 45,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12079668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BloodyIvar/pseuds/BloodyIvar
Summary: Our leading lady goes back in time to Victorian England and joins a brilliant, dashing detective on the hunt for a serial killer. But the detective hides a deadly secret: when the full moon rises, this sophisticated genius turns into a savage werewolf! But who’s the real beast terrorizing London?





	1. Chapter 1

The hour was growing late. Though there was no change in his cool, elegant appearance, the man at the center of the crowd could feel the tension rising in his chest. He’d tried to get out of attending tonight’s gathering, but social and professional necessity had forced him to attend the pre-theater party here at the Langham Hotel; it was, after all, in celebration of his latest accomplishments. Even so, he’d had to risk insulting his host and hostess by declining their invitation to the theatrical performance itself, claiming a prior obligation. They’d been disappointed but understood that a man in his unusual profession kept strange hours. 

So here he was, having clad his muscular body in his finest evening clothes despite the crawling sensation prickling his skin, and wearing a polite smile despite the ache radiating throughout his very bones. This was all necessary to maintain the reputation for which he was famed throughout London—a man in complete control of himself—despite the heavy knowledge that this was a complete and utter lie. No one noticed that his blue-eyed gaze flicked back and forth from the opulently-dressed guests to the slant of sunset sky visible through the parted window curtains. No one thought it strange that he checked his pocket watch now and again; he was known for both his observational skills and his impatience. But when he could no longer postpone his departure and started toward the door, the Duke—his host—clasped his arm and begged a word in private. By this time, he could hardly tolerate such contact. Even the light pressure of the Duke’s fingers made him want to snarl in outrage. 

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” the man said, barely remembering his manners with a tiny bow of his head, “but I must not delay.” 

“Just a moment, Lothbrok, if you please?” The Duke would not let him go, and though the man tried to weave through the crowd while they spoke, the old nobleman seemed determined to speak his peace. 

The conversation was inconsequential, which was fortunate since his listener could pay little attention. He felt feverish and the bright light from multiple chandeliers had begun to hurt his eyes. Sweat trickled beneath his straight hair. Time was his enemy now, and so was the Duke, though the elderly Duke didn’t realize it. 

“Forgive me,” the man whispered again, interrupting the Duke and wresting himself from the other man’s grasp. Without another word, he ducked through the milling bodies, now keenly smelling the Macassar oil on the men’s hair, the ladies’ powder and perfume, and above all the scent of their skin that made him dizzy with longing. He pushed his way out the door and ignored the hotel footman’s attempt to protect him with an umbrella. The rain was a blessing, cooling his head. With one glance at the crowded street, he saw that his own carriage was blocked by dozens of others and knew he’d have to make his way by foot. Speed was his natural gift and he gladly used it, letting loose his powerful calf muscles that were even now stretching and burning with desire to run, though instinct made him yearn for grassy fields and forests instead of the rain-slicked cobblestones.   
Fleeing past Regent Street, he sucked air into his lungs and groaned with every exhale. Already he sounded less human. He ripped the gloves from his fingers and flung them to the street, needing his skin exposed, the freedom to clench and unclench his hands. The rain lessened and clouds parted to reveal the stars and the cursed moon, its fullness mocking him with its siren call. He looked steadfastly ahead of him. Not that staring directly at the white-gold face mattered. He could be in his cellar, windows blocked by the thickest curtains, without even a sliver of moonlight visible, and it would make no difference. When the moon was rising, when it was at its highest, he always knew. 

Desperation threatened to make him cry out as the pains started. Thankfully he was only a block away from his house—he owned the whole building, a necessity for privacy—but still he moved faster despite the searing in his bones that even made breathing a difficult exercise. At last he stumbled up the stairs and through the door. He shut and bolted it behind him, though the safety of the lock wasn’t enough. He was approaching the most dangerous time: the Cusp, as he’d grown to call it—too much a creature, yet still too much a man, with all the craft, intelligence and cruelty unique to humanity. Someone in this state was far more dangerous than any mere animal. Yanking at his stiff collar, which chafed him along with every stitch of clothing that already felt like an abomination, he tore off his coat as he reached the sideboard and the dark bottle he used only three nights a month. He poured the liquid down his throat and nearly choked. Usually its sickly sweetness wasn’t a problem if taken earlier in the evening, but by this stage his flavor preference was for savory, not sweet. It was a bad sign that he could barely get the liquid down, and panic rose anew. He dropped the bottle on the silver salver and managed to find his way to the dark cellar he knew so well. The door slammed and locked behind him as he fell to his knees. Painfully he crawled to the corner, hoping against hope that he’d been in time. 

* * * 

The light rain had subsided by the time Nettie began her evening stroll. Her heels clacked along the cobblestone path, the echo resounding throughout the alley. The humid night air clung to her skin and the young woman had already removed the shawl she'd draped over her shoulders before ducking out into the night. Even when exhausted from standing all day in the hat shop where she worked, she never missed her stroll—especially on a night like this. Moonlight flooded the London streets, peeking through the strange filter of the fog and turning what had been gray and ugly into a silvery blue. It would be easy to get lost in such a shrouded maze of tiny little streets, but she knew the area well, even after living here only a month. 

Nettie’s family thought it wasn’t safe, a girl alone, far from home. She felt independent and alive. Her sisters were all in service in others’ homes, hands rough from scrubbing, faces old before their time. Not her. She had a proper job in a lovely milliner’s, handling nothing heavier than fine lace and velvet, sometimes even modeling the beautiful creations for the gentlemen buying gifts for their wives or mistresses. She smiled now, her gait quickening to nearly a skip, as she thought of the man she’d met this morning. Handsome as anything, he was; he’d spent nearly an hour begging her to try on hat after hat, admiring each one—but not as much as he’d admired her pretty, heart-shaped face. 

“You’re the most fetching thing in here,” he’d murmured, boldly chucking her under the chin with one pearl colored gloved hand. “Shame I can’t get you wrapped up in one of those fine packages.” 

Such cheek! Of course, she was used to men’s flirtations. Blessed with beauty and not shy about showing it off, she aimed to marry well and perhaps have a bit of fun beforehand. And why not? These were modern times, nearly the end of the century, and a young woman like herself didn’t have to end up stuck as a drudge with a dozen children. The stranger from the shop had promised to see her again, and for some reason she believed him. Maybe he’d return and invite her to take tea with him in one of those grand hotels on Park Lane. She’d go even if he weren’t rich, with his dashing appearance and those blue eyes of his, staring at her as if trying to memorize her for a sketch. Nettie’s dream-like state was rudely shattered by someone calling to her. 

“’ere, miss!” Scowling, she turned to find the wiry, shabbily-dressed figure of a young boy known only as Mouse. Mouse was famous for selling anything he could get his slick little hands on. During the day it was newspapers; at night he’d sell various items he’d claim to have ‘found’—stolen, most likely. “It’s awful late,” he yelled. “Whatcha doin’ out?” 

“Keeping to myself,” she said with a lift of her chin, continuing on. “Mind you do the same.” The boy paid no heed. He examined her through dark, shining eyes. 

“Shouldn’t be on your own, not ’round ’ere. You barmy or somethin’?” 

“Watch your mouth. What I do is none of your affair.” 

“Just tryin’ to—” 

“Besides, I’ve been walkin’ here nearly every night for weeks now and you never said a thing before. What’s different tonight?” He stared at her as if she were an escapee from Bedlam. 

“Don’t you know? Ain’t you ’eard of the Gresse Street Beast?” Nettie burst into laughter. 

“Pull the other one!” Ignoring her mockery, Mouse sidled closer. She instinctively clutched her reticule more tightly. There wasn’t much in it, only a few pennies and a letter from home, but the black beaded bag was a gift from her mum. Mouse might be trying to snatch it from her while telling her his latest absurd story. 

“They say ’e comes out when the moon’s out, bright like this,” Mouse said, his voice soft and full of awe. “No one’s seen ’im, but I know two people that say they saw—” 

“Oh, be off with you. You’re not foolin’ me! A beast, I’m sure.” She turned onto Gresse Street, which would lead her over to the charming houses of Percy Street. As she walked, she heard Mouse call out a final, “Be careful, miss!” 

The young woman ignored him as she strolled on her way, taking a shortcut through an alley. The night seemed darker here, the buildings looming tall above her. It was oddly quiet too, even for this late hour. Usually one could hear the clip-clop of carriage horses audible all the way from busy Tottenham Court Road. But the humidity seemed to weigh everything down, including the normal sounds of the London night. All she heard were her own footsteps, as well as the skittering of dry leaves across the pavement behind her. Nettie suddenly slowed down. Dry leaves? At this time of year? Strange. At least, it had sounded exactly like autumn leaves dancing in whirlwinds. Now that she was listening more closely, the noise seemed to have disappeared. Her heart pounded and she thought of Mouse’s words earlier. 

“Stupid boy,” she muttered. “Heard too many stories from those penny dreadfuls.” She clenched her teeth and pressed on. Three paces later, she heard a voice. A guttural word. Or maybe a growl. She whirled around, but no one was there. She was halfway down the alley and it seemed empty. Only a child or dog would be able to hide, crouching in the stairwells leading down to the houses’ lowest floors. Turning back and clucking her tongue at her fancies, she took another step. It was all she had time for. Hands slammed on her back, shoving her brutally to the damp street. Too shocked to cry out, she tried to get up but the body on top of her was too heavy. She could hear her attacker’s deep, ragged breathing, and she felt hot, moist breath on her neck. Frantically scraping her hands on the ground, she turned to look at her attacker. Instead she saw the flash of something white, something sharp, and then it sank into her flesh and the world exploded in pain and blood as her face, her pretty heart-shaped face, was torn to pieces. 

* * *

The first signs of dawn streaked through the windows of the beautifully appointed townhouse as the owner awoke. He found himself lying on the floor, his arms covered in scrapes and bruises. He felt as if he had been on a week-long drinking binge. The experience was one to which he’d grown almost accustomed over the past five years. There was no sign of the silk, pearl-buttoned shirt, the white waistcoat or trousers he’d worn at the party last night. His flesh was bare and chilled despite the warmth of the July morning. None of this was unusual. He wasn’t surprised to be lying naked, scarred and alone. What shocked him, once his blurry eyes acclimated to their normal vision, was where he was lying. This wasn’t the cheerless dirt floor of the cellar room that was his confinement three nights out of every month. 

Beneath him was his parlor’s multicolored oriental carpet, itchy but a softer bed than the cellar floor. And he was surrounded by shards of glass from the now-broken window that looked out onto the alley. Filled with dread, the man staggered to his feet and lurched toward the looking-glass. Surprisingly, it hadn't been smashed to pieces like the nearby window. He stared at himself, at the scratches on his throat, at the usually neat shoulder-length, light brown hair that was disheveled and matted with sweat and grime. Worst of all, when he swallowed, lingering in his dry mouth was the coppery taste of blood. “Dear God,” the man croaked, his tormented reflection silently echoing the words. “What have I done?”


	2. Chapter 2

The Lakeview Community Library was as still and silent as ever. From her position behind the circulation desk, Isabella could see a few patrons scattered throughout the floor, some sitting at the long tables reading and others behind study carrels taking notes. From her vantage point, no one seemed to move or even breathe. Beside Isabella was a pile of recently returned books ready to be placed back on their shelves, but on this particular Tuesday afternoon, Isabella had no drive to do such a simple task. She felt on edge. Restless. Even reckless. She had the sudden urge to shout and break the heavy silence just to see what might happen. Of course, she wouldn’t; she cared too much about the loyal library patrons, most of whom she knew by name. And she had respect for the books that surrounded her, too. Creating a disturbance among them would seem almost sacrilegious. 

The clock on the wall suddenly attracted her attention. Nearly five-thirty! Time for her weekly mystery novel book club meeting... if one could call it a club with only one official member. Each week she publicized the meetings throughout the community, cheerfully determined to meet other like minded book-lovers. She perked up and ran a hand through her hair to neaten it before standing up from her stool to move to the PA system. 

“The Lakeview Library Mystery Book Club begins in five minutes,” she said into the mic. “For all those interested, we’ll meet in the east meeting room at five-thirty.” 

As her older colleague took over for her at the circulation desk, Isabella quickly grabbed her copy of this week’s book—Jeopardy— along with a stack of steno pads from underneath her desk for any attendees to scribble down their thoughts. She smiled and forced herself to remain positive. 

“C’mon, girl,” she murmured aloud on her way to the meeting room. “Someone will show up. Eventually.” She grabbed three copies of the novel and headed down the fluorescent-lit hallway to the empty room. Flicking on the lights, she breathed in the cool air before dropping the novels and pads onto the conference table. As she absently leafed through the pages of her book, her reveries were interrupted by a knock on the door. Isabella's eyes glanced up and met the gaze of an unfamiliar woman. The stranger’s brown hair glistened from the minute drops of rain dotted throughout, and she flashed a wide smile at Isabella before she approached the table. 

“Sorry,” she said. “Hope I didn’t startle you.” 

“Not at all!” Isabella straightened up and got to her feet, childishly excited at seeing someone at the meeting. Even if it was probably just someone who was lost, and not an actual... 

“Am I too late for the book club?” Isabella was stunned and for a moment wondered if she’d dozed off while reading. The club had been ignored for so long that she almost believed anyone actually attending must be a figment of her imagination. When she took too long to reply, the newcomer frowned slightly and backed off a step. “Uh, maybe I have the wrong room? Sorry I bothered—” 

“No!” Isabella said, practically yelping. “This is it, please come in!” The woman seemed relieved. 

“Great! But where’s everyone else?” Isabella gave her a crooked smile. 

“You're looking at her.” 

“Oh. I guess the others didn’t want to brave the weather?” 

“Maybe,” Isabella said noncommittally, not wanting to discourage her first actual attendee. “I’m Isabella, by the way.” 

“Alicia,” the woman said, extending a hand. “Nice to meet you.” Isabella greeted Alicia, then gestured for her to take a seat. Alicia slid into the hard plastic chair. 

“So, do you have a copy of the book?” For some reason Alicia looked alarmed, and her brown gaze darted down to her handbag. Then she flushed. 

“I don’t even know what book we’re discussing. I guess I didn’t pay that close attention to the flyer.” 

“Is that how you found the meeting? That’s good to know.” 

“I’m new in town and I’ve been kind of taking up residence at the library. Y’know, to check out all the local resources and learn more about the place.” Isabella didn’t remember seeing Alicia here before. But then, Isabella didn’t usually venture up to the second floor’s community resource  
center. Alicia continued, “Anyway, I heard the announcement just now and saw the flyer, and just had the urge to pop in. Hope you don’t mind that I’m not prepared.” 

“Absolutely not! Today we’re supposed to discuss Jeopardy, by Tessa Aldwych. One of my favorites. Have you read that?” When Alicia shook her head, Isabella shrugged and sat down. 

“No problem. We’ll save it for another week. Maybe we can just talk about mysteries in general today.” Alicia glanced at the small pile of books near Isabella. 

“Here’s an idea. Why don't I take out a copy and read it tonight... and I'll meet you tomorrow?” Isabella's eyes widened in surprise. 

“Tomorrow?” 

“I'm a fast reader, trust me,” Alicia said. Then she looked embarrassed. “Oh, I didn’t mean to be presumptuous. You probably have tons of other things to do. I sort of forget that not everyone’s a newcomer like me without a life.” 

“No, tomorrow’s fine. Same time?” Alicia nodded and opened her bag as if planning to shove the book inside. She fished around in its voluminous depths and then made a little grunt of surprise. 

“Hey! You know, I have one of my own favorite mysteries in here. Maybe you’d like to read it? We could do a sort of book swap.” 

“I might’ve read it already. I gobble up practically every mystery that’s published.” 

“Not this one, I bet. It’s a little-known rarity.” The word sent a little thrill of excitement down Isabella's spine. Like most bibliophiles, she was awed by the thought of viewing an undiscovered rare book. Stepping around, she peeked over her new friend’s shoulder to get a better look at the volume. The cover was black leather, not in the best of condition, but still strikingly lovely with gilt-edged pages and scrollwork designs all around the front cover. Isabella was dismayed to see that some of the pages were dog-eared—heresy to any antique book lover—but from the careful way Alicia was handling it, Isabella guessed that they’d been folded long before Alicia owned the book. When Alicia placed the book on the table, Isabella could now read the title: Gresse Street Secrets. Compelled to run her finger tips over the carefully tooled letters, Isabella felt goosebumps on her arms. 

“I've never heard of this,” she admitted in a low murmur, as if hypnotized by the book’s mere presence. 

“Almost no one has.” Alicia sounded proud. “It's a privately printed book, passed down from my family.” 

Isabella opened the cover to find an elaborately illustrated frontispiece, an engraving that depicted a series of townhouses along a gloomy cobblestone street. The title page had a copyright year of 1895. “And it’s a mystery?” 

“A true mystery about a series of unsolved crimes from the nineteenth century, all revolving around a particular London street.” 

“Gresse Street, presumably,” Isabella murmured, looking back at the illustration. The image drew her. It depicted the small figure of a woman in standard Victorian dress walking by a lamp post. Bending closer, Isabella squinted a little to get a better look. A flash of lightning from the nearby windows broke Isabella from her haze. She looked back at Alicia, whose face wore a delighted, knowing smile. 

“You can almost feel the mystery, can’t you?” Alicia said. “I warn you, it’s a little creepy. You up for it?” Isabella didn’t hesitate. A stormy night like this was made for reading a creepy 19th century true crime book! 

“I'd love to! But are you sure you’re okay with my borrowing it? It looks like an heirloom.” 

“Hey, if you can’t trust a librarian with a book, who can you trust? Just maybe keep it safe in your bag and only read it at home. Not at the bus stop or on a train or anything like that...” 

“I promise. I’ll take extra care of it. Thanks, Alicia! It might take me a little longer to read than one night, though.” 

“Take all the time you need. I can’t wait to discuss it with you! But Jeopardy first, of course.” She held up her copy of the latter book. “That’ll be tomorrow.” When Isabella agreed, Alicia reached for her umbrella and moved toward the door. With a slight glance over her shoulder, she smiled at Isabella again. This time, her expression seemed odd. It was almost apologetic. Expectant. “Enjoy, Isabella.” 

“Don’t forget, you'll need to check that book out with your...” Isabella's voice trailed off as Alicia slipped out the door. “Library card.” Isabella sat in silence and stared at the book before her. It took another strike of lightning to prompt her into movement. She placed the book underneath her arm and, turning off the lights, made her way out of the meeting room.

* * * 

When Isabella arrived at home, she was drenched, despite her umbrella’s best efforts. She unlocked the front door and stepped inside, immediately met by her unusually hyperactive dog, Sadie. The storm was probably making Sadie a bit anxious. She dropped her purse on the hardwood floor, knelt down, and gently stroked Sadie, glad to be back in the welcome respite of her home. After a few minutes, Isabella made a beeline for the bathroom, Sadie padding behind her, and gratefully stripped out of her cotton shirt and skirt. She tossed the wet items to the floor and turned on the shower. Running a hand through her hair, she drew the curtain and climbed into the tub. The spray of warm water washed away the rainwater and the sheen of perspiration that had coated her skin on her travel home. After using her apple-scented body wash, she felt clean and revived, but remained in the comfort of the shower for a few lingering minutes until the sight of Sadie at the door reminded Isabella that the dog was probably hungry. Isabella turned off the shower and quickly toweled dry. She slipped on a thin cotton nightgown and her favorite floral silk bathrobe and hurried to the kitchen with Sadie close behind, tail lashing about enthusiastically. Before long she’d filled Sadie’s dish with dog food and refreshed the water bowl, too. 

“Dig in,” she said as she leaned against the counter and watched Sadie obey with ravenous desire. Having taken care of Sadie, she fixed herself a large salad for dinner and, when finished, headed into the living room. The thunderstorm raged outside causing the lights to flicker. 

Surprised, Isabella moved through the room and lit several candles in case power went out. The candles’ sweet vanilla scent wafted through the room as she recovered her bag from the floor and retrieved the old book. What could be more appropriate than delving into a Victorian novel by candlelight? she thought as she flipped the light switch off and huddled onto her couch and opened the book to the first page.  
It was on Gresse Street, a road of little consequence to fashionable Londoners, where a poor young woman breathed her last that morning: one of a series of murders that would continue to stain the tiny street red with its victims’ blood...

Isabella shivered, pleasantly spooked, and read eagerly on. But before she’d turned the first page, a sudden draft of cool air filtered through the room. It nearly blew out the candles next to Isabella's couch and fluttered the pages of her book, making her lose her place. When she looked down, she noticed that the pages had fallen open to reveal a beautiful, painstakingly colored illustration. She was interested at once and leaned back, lifting the book higher for a better look. The portrait was of a man dressed in black, with light brown hair atop a striking, handsome face and piercing blue eyes. They seemed to peer out at her, seeing her despite the years and the fact that he was, after all, only an illustration. 

Her attention was broken by a broad yawn. It wasn’t boredom—far from it—but rather, she only now became aware of just how tired she was. She wiped her eyes and returned her gaze to the book. The illustration had a caption at the bottom: Ivar Lothbrok, Consulting Detective. 

“A real-life Sherlock Holmes,” she whispered, intrigued. Again the goose bumps rose on her flesh, though she didn’t know why. She looked back at his face. Even in a mere portrait, she could see intelligence radiating from this man’s eyes. But there was more there. The artist had captured some emotion hidden in the depths of his subject’s hooded eyes: they were angry. Or determined. Or haunted. Or perhaps all three. She flipped back to the start of the book, but over the next half hour she kept returning to examine the portrait. This man’s image mesmerized her, and it was his face she focused on when her eyelids drooped and she felt herself drifting off, book cradled in her arms. 

The storm intensified as she slept. Lightning cracked the sky and thunder shook the floorboards. Yet she continued to sleep as deeply as if drugged. In her dreams, she could almost feel the ice cold water on her, drenching her skin just as it had earlier this evening. Frowning in her sleep, she shuddered. She was freezing. And wet. So very wet. And the noise wasn’t just rain; it was something clopping, something rolling, very near her head.... Her eyes flew open with a jolt to find herself sitting not on her sofa but on a sidewalk, her back up against the wall of some brick building, where rain slammed down upon her with intense ferocity. She was hugging herself against the cold wind and rain, and within her arms she could feel the book still up against her chest.

Astonished, she stumbled to her feet and took a few tentative steps from the sidewalk to the unfamiliar street, hoping to get a better look at her surroundings. In a daze, she could see only that it appeared to be light enough for morning, but with the thick cloud cover and rain she couldn’t tell what time of day it was. The rain was so heavy she could barely see three feet in front of her. Again she heard the clomping noise, which she now recognized as hoofbeats. Before she had a chance to catch her breath or figure out what on earth a horse might be doing in Lakeview, she heard a man’s voice yelling above the din. 

“Look out, miss! Look out!” Spinning toward his voice, she had only a second to realize that a horse-drawn carriage was barreling toward her, showing no sign of stopping for the shocked woman frozen in place in its path.


	3. Chapter 3

Isabella had only an instant to react. She leapt to the side, flinging herself out of the path of the oncoming horse to fall clumsily on the curb. The carriage passed by so closely that the edge of her robe caught beneath the wheels that clattered deafeningly over the stones paving the street. Her senses reeled as she tried to catch her breath, supporting her body with trembling hands braced on the pavement. She couldn’t take in everything that confused her: from the presence of a horse-drawn carriage to the unfamiliar brick buildings to the sheer fact of her having been transported from her warm, cozy living room to the middle of an unfamiliar street on a chilly, rainy morning. 

“What the hell’s going on?” she muttered through chattering lips, shivering and clutching her robe to her nightgown-clad body. A few people hurried to her side. Even through the rainstorm she could see the clothes they wore were... unusual, to say the least. The man nearest her seemed the most normal, with a tweed suit visible beneath a long black cloak. Beside him was a woman, also in black, but her skirt swept the ground and billowed behind her over what appeared to be a bustle, emphasizing and amplifying her rear. Her hat was a creation that could have had a zip code all to itself. Meanwhile, at the periphery of it all was the small figure of a boy wearing a cap, his eyes wide in amazement at what was turning out to be an exciting show. Isabella swallowed as she looked up. She had to be dreaming. That was the only explanation. 

“Are you alright, miss?” the man said, lending a gloved hand to help her to rise to her feet. His accent identified him as an upper-class Englishman. “That was a close call.” 

She gratefully accepted his help, and he and the woman led her down the street beneath the awning of what appeared to be a bakery. She surreptitiously pinched her arm beneath her robe, trying to awaken herself. Nothing happened. The woman looked her up and down, staring at her clothing. 

“But you are soaked through. That cloak is nothing to wear in such weather! What in heaven’s name—” 

“I’m sorry, but who are you guys?” Isabella interrupted. “Are you actors? Rehearsing for a performance somewhere?” 

“I beg your pardon?” The indignation in the woman’s voice made it clear that she’d interpreted Isabella's words as a horrible insult. Isabella tried again. 

“Can you tell me where I am? I—I seem to be lost.” Fortunately the man didn’t seem nearly as affronted. His thick gray mustache lifted in a gentle smile. 

“This is Percy Street, my dear. Gresse Street is just over there, and you’ll find Tottenham Court Road over to the east. Where you are headed?” 

Where I’m headed? I don’t even know any of these names. But as she looked dizzily around, the names registered in her mind. Gresse Street... Oh my God, from the book! It couldn’t be a coincidence that she found herself in this utterly unknown setting. So I am dreaming, I must be! I fell asleep reading Alicia's book, and now I’m here. Maybe I have to read that book again in order to wake up.... It sounded insane to her, but since when did dreams make sense? The only trouble, she suddenly realized, was that her arms were empty. The Gresse Street Secrets book was gone—she must have dropped it when she’d fled out of the path of the carriage. After muttering a word of thanks to the gape-mouthed strangers, Isabella hurried back to where she’d first awoken in the rain. 

She was freezing and felt ridiculously underdressed amid the townspeople, all of whom wore what she now recognized as late 19th century clothing. Everyone stared at her as she passed. At last she came to the section of the street where she’d nearly been run over by the carriage. There was a torn piece of fabric from her robe lying in the street, wedged into what earlier she’d thought was mud but now she realized was probably manure. But the book was nowhere in sight. Her gaze darted from the street to the curb and sidewalk, hoping to find the familiar black leather book lying somewhere. No luck; it was gone, possibly even kicked down a sewer by a horse for all she knew. Cursing, she hurried back beneath another building’s awning.

Isabella had to figure out what was going on. If it was a dream, well, she’d eventually wake up. If it wasn’t a dream, she was in trouble. Because she couldn’t even comprehend what else could be causing this bizarre set of circumstances. She’d somehow been transported to Gresse Street, in London, though exactly when she couldn’t begin to guess. No, that’s not true, she corrected herself, looking carefully at the men and women passing by. The clothing... I’ve seen these outfits before. Late 1800s. Her knowledge of literature helped her tremendously; she’d read dozens and dozens of Victorian-age novels and history books. Bustles were in style after about 1875, I think. So that narrows things further. The rational process of deducing the era seemed to calm her down slightly. I’ll get through this. Once I get some decent clothes, this could actually be kind of fun. Like stepping into a Masterpiece Theatre production. Her mind seemed to snap into focus when her gaze fell on the young boy she’d seen earlier. He was standing at the corner beneath a lamppost hawking newspapers to the passers-by. 

Newspapers! Of course—they’d have today’s date! Rushing forward, Isabella nearly knocked into a woman in her way. “Sorry, sorry,” she said. The woman just nodded and started off again, but Isabella abruptly whirled on her heel and lurched toward her. The stranger carried an umbrella and wore a long coat and gown, just like all the other women on this Victorian London street, but unlike the rest, Isabella recognized her. The same brown hair, the same brown eyes: it was Alicia! 

“Alicia!” Isabella cried, taking hold of the other woman’s shoulders and pulling her into a wet hug. She was overwhelmed with gratitude to have found someone she knew in this odd and unsettling world. “I’m so glad to see you!”   
“Release me! How dare you—just who do you think you are?” The woman backed off and shoved Isabella away from her, eyes wide in alarm. 

“But it's me!” Isabella cried. “Isabella! Don't you remember? We met in the library? You gave me your book?” The woman backed away from Isabella. 

“I’ve never seen you before in my life!” Isabella's heart sank. 

“You mean... you really don’t know me?” 

“No, I do not.” 

“I’m sorry.” Isabella shook her head and wiped a hand across her brow, pushing away the damp strands of her hair clinging to her forehead. She was cold, dizzy and embarrassed. “I thought I recognized you. You look exactly like Alicia, a—a friend of mine. I didn’t mean to frighten you. It’s just that I’m lost and I guess I’m seeing things....”

“My name is Alicia Thomas,” the woman admitted, her voice softening. She sounded just like the other Alicia whom Isabella knew, except for the posh London accent. As she took in Isabella's disheveled appearance, her attitude seemed to melt from indignation into sympathy. “You haven’t frightened me. But you are in quite a state. You simply cannot run around town looking like that. You’ll catch your death.” 

“I know, but I don’t know what else I can do. I don’t have any money... and I’ve lost my book... I mean, I’m lost,” Isabella corrected herself hurriedly. “I have nowhere to go.” 

“Where is your home? Is it far from here?” 

“Yes.” Which was putting it mildly, Isabella realized, but she didn’t dare elaborate. “I can’t go back. I just... I can’t.” Alicia pursed her lips and thought for a moment. 

“I am the proprietress of a lodging house not too far from here,” she said at last. “Perhaps you could come with me? I can at least offer you something to wear, and lodgings for the evening.” Isabella glanced back in the direction of the street, hoping in vain to catch a glimpse of Gresse Street Secrets. 

“That’s very generous of you,” she said slowly. As much as she wanted to get out of the rain and cold, she was reluctant to abandon the book that might hold the key to all this strangeness. Alicia exhaled deeply. 

“Then come along, Miss... I beg your pardon, what is your name again?” 

“Isabella Lang.” 

“Very well, Miss Lang. I do not enjoy standing in the rain, so let us please hurry home!” Alicia ushered Isabella toward Gresse Street, both huddled underneath Alicia's broad umbrella. As they turned the corner, Isabella again spotted the young boy selling newspapers. His cap was pulled low over his head against the rain, and he shouted at them in a thick Cockney accent, barely understandable to Isabella. 

“Paper, miss! Pall Mall Gazette ’ere!” 

“Off with you, Mouse!” Alicia cast a disparaging look in the young street urchin’s direction. “We haven't the time.” 

“Just a second,” Isabella pleaded, and snatched up one of the limp, soggy newspapers from the boy’s hand. One look at the front page made her heart hammer in her breast. 23 October, 1892. “I don’t believe it,” she said to herself. “It’s really 1892!” 

“’ey, that costs, miss!” Mouse grabbed the paper back from Isabella and glared at her. “Tuppence for anyone, even a lady!”

“I'm sorry.” The sight of the rain-soaked boy, who couldn’t be more than eleven, made her heart turn over. “Please, Alicia—Miss Thomas—” Isabella turned to Alicia. “Couldn’t you give him something? I hate to ask such a favor when you’re already helping me, but—” 

“Very well. Here,” Alicia murmured as she tossed a coin to the boy. “Mind you don’t bother us again.” Mouse caught the two-penny piece with lightning-fast hands and tucked it into a pocket. He smiled briefly at Alicia and then Isabella, but then looked away, as if embarrassed by the kindness. Alicia seized her arm and continued to direct her along the street. They wound their way around the block to a dead end and the four-story building known as Thomas Lodgings. Alicia explained that she kept a respectable home for women—those who were new to London, who’d been orphaned or widowed, or who simply needed a safe place to stay. 

“For some women, I’m afraid their homes are far worse than the unknown to which they choose to flee. Perhaps this is true for you? I don’t wish to presume, of course....” Isabella remained silent but gave her generous new friend a polite smile, hoping to seem modest but not unfriendly. The less she revealed about her true circumstances the better. Upon reaching the house, Isabella practically bounded inside and revelled in its warmth and above all its dryness. 

The hallway was dark and narrow, much narrower than any modern home Isabella had ever seen. And as she looked around, noting the creaky wooden floor, the gas jet lighting that flickered steadily overhead, the dark maroon and gold wallpaper... everything in this very 19th-century building made this experience seem more real. She was in a strange time and a strange place, and it was becoming more obvious that this wasn’t a dream. She stood in place, trying to fathom the unfathomable, as Alicia spoke to a housemaid and told her to set up a room on the third floor, and also to fetch some of Alicia's clothes.   
“We must get you out of those... those things,” Alicia added with a worried look at Isabella's bathrobe and nightgown, which were soaked and clinging almost obscenely to Isabella's body. Isabella flushed at the realization that she’d been on such obvious display in front of strangers, especially in an era that valued feminine modesty—at least in public—but knew there was nothing to be done about that now. She followed Alicia up a narrow staircase. As she ascended, she could feel the warmth of the home envelop her. As Alicia told her, here she was not only welcome, but safe. Just as she rounded the corner of the second floor landing, a young woman burst out of one of the bedrooms, nearly smacking into her. 

“Oh, I'm sorry,” Isabella said automatically. “I didn't mean to...” Her voice trailed off when the other woman backed away and her face moved from shadow to light. All down the left side of the stranger’s face were long, jagged scars. Isabella's sudden silence appeared to upset the stranger. 

“Lost your tongue, have you?” the young woman snapped. “Never seen a face before? Do I scare you?” 

“Stop your shouting, Nettie,” Alicia said evenly, turning back to see what the fuss was. She held out an arm to separate the two women. “Perhaps if you didn’t come bursting out of your room as if the house were afire you’d not frighten others so.”

“It’s okay, I’m not frightened,” Isabella said. She hugged herself, feeling naked under the other woman’s scrutiny. “Just startled.” Nettie narrowed her eyes. 

“She talks funny, she does.” 

“At least she’s not rude enough to make personal remarks. Miss Lang, this is Miss Ashdown.” 

“Nettie Ashdown,” the scarred woman added, making a small curtsey that was clearly intended to mock Alicia. “Pleasure to meet you, I’m sure.” 

“I’m pleased to make your acquaintance,” Isabella said, bowing her head slightly and making more of an effort to fit in. She couldn’t put on an accent for them, but at least she could speak in a more era-appropriate manner. 

“Isabella will be staying with us for the evening,” Alicia explained. “Now, if you'll excuse us, I'd like to show her to her room.” Nettie waited for Alicia to pass by, but as Isabella tried to follow, Nettie grabbed her by the elbow. 

“Did she tell you you’re safe?” she hissed into Isabella's ear. “D’you think you really are safe?” Isabella pulled back, unsure how to react to this woman's wild line of questioning. 

“I haven’t thought about it,” she said slowly, hoping to pacify her.   
“Well, you’d best start thinking. You didn’t answer me before. Do these scars scare you?” 

“Let me go, please. I won’t answer you until you do.” When Nettie released her, Isabella pulled herself up to her full height. “No. They don't.” 

“They should,” Nettie said, her voice a ragged whisper. “If you're new here, they oughta scare you. ’Cause they was a present from the Gresse Street Beast!” 

“Enough of your parlor games, Nettie Ashdown!” Alicia roared from further down the hall. “Get on with you! Back to your room or I’ll toss you out as I should have done long ago!” 

“You wouldn’t dare. I got money,” Nettie snapped. “I got enough to pay for a room and that’s all that matters to the likes of you!” She spun around on her heels and stomped off to her room, leaving a very confused Isabella in her wake. What the hell is going on here? 

“I apologize,” Alicia said. “Nettie is a... a sad creature. She's been through quite an ordeal.” Isabella followed Alicia up another flight of narrow stairs. 

“What happened to her, if you don't mind my asking?” Alicia remained silent as she led Isabella down a corridor to a bedroom, where a door stood invitingly open. When the two were inside the small but comfortable quarters, Alicia invited Isabella to take advantage of the hot water the maid had provided in a ceramic wash bowl on the dresser, and also pointed out the neat pile of clothes that had been left for her by the housemaid. 

“Nettie’s tale is a disturbing one,” Alicia said eventually, sitting on the bed and rubbing her hands together as if still cold. “About a year ago, someone brutally attacked her not too far from here. Before that she had a charming disposition. A bit flighty and overly fond of her own appearance, but still a sweet and lively girl. After the attack... well, she’s as you see now. Touched.” 

“That’s horrible.” Isabella couldn’t help remembering the stories she’d started to read in Gresse Street Secrets. She hadn’t gotten very far in the book before falling asleep, but she’d seen enough to learn that there had been a series of attacks—most ending in gruesome deaths, but one victim, the first, had been left alive. As was common in older literature, the name had been given with only initials: Miss A. Had that been Nettie? She swallowed and held the clothing close to her chest. “Was the perpetrator caught?”

“No,” Alicia said in a flat tone. “And there have been several other curious attacks in the area recently. I must admit that this is part of the reason I invited you to stay with me.” 

“I don’t understand.” 

“You see, these crimes have occurred against newcomers to the city—particularly attractive women, such as yourself, if you’ll forgive the personal remark.” 

“It’s a compliment—of course I’ll forgive you.” Isabella smiled gently. “I do thank you, Miss Thomas, for allowing me to stay here and providing me with such lovely things.” Alicia returned the smile. 

“Is the room satisfactory?” 

“Absolutely. More than satisfactory, it’s gorgeous!” Isabella looked around, impressed by the richly decorated surroundings. Her thoughts, however, were occupied with a much grimmer subject. A serial killer. Could they possibly be talking about Jack the Ripper? Isabella tried to remember all the accounts of the infamous murderer she’d read in novels, history books and magazines. No, Jack the Ripper’s crimes had occurred around 1888—five years ago. But Isabella's mystery-loving mind continued to calculate possibilities. Perhaps it’s a copycat! Didn’t someone send letters to Scotland Yard claiming to be the Ripper? Maybe someone is taking over where Jack left off! Her theorizing was interrupted by Alicia's kind voice. 

“Let me leave you to get out of those wet things. Do you need assistance dressing? I’ll send Dot up to help you. She’s my lady’s maid—” 

“No, thanks, I’ll be okay. I’ll figure this stuff out on my own.” At Alicia's curious expression, Isabella realized that her vocabulary might need some work if she were to stay in this time period. Do they even say okay here yet? Almost certainly not. Yikes, I’d better think before I speak or I’ll seem even more like a fish out of water. “I do appreciate the offer,” she added smoothly. “But I prefer to dress myself.” 

“Very well. If you do need anything, please ring for Dot.” Alicia gestured toward a hanging piece of tapestry by the fireplace, probably a bell pull connected to the servants’ hall downstairs. Before she headed out the door, she hesitated and turned back to Isabella. “And do believe me... you're safe now. Don’t let anyone frighten you, and please don’t dwell on the unpleasantness we discussed.” Isabella nodded as Alicia slipped from the room. 

She took a deep breath to appreciate the silence. Then she peeled off her bathrobe and gown and used the hot water in the heavy ceramic bowl on the dresser to clean the grime from her body. It wasn’t the steamy hot bath or shower she so desired, but this was certainly better than remaining filthy. When finished, she dried herself thoroughly before the fire, finally picking up the undergarments, dressing gown and other beautiful yet unfamiliar clothes Alicia had lent her. Just as she held the clothing up to her naked body, the door behind her swung open. With a shriek Isabella spun around, her eyes wide with fright when they beheld the wild-looking figure of Nettie Ashdown in the doorway. 

“Get out!” Isabella ordered, her face burning. But Nettie didn’t seem to notice Isabella's nearly uncovered form, instead approaching her and glaring directly into Isabella's eyes. 

“’Do believe me, you’re safe,’” Nettie said, mimicking Alicia's regal voice perfectly. “Silly cow!” Isabella scowled at her.

“Excuse me?” 

“You're not safe at all,” Nettie whispered. “Alicia Thomas says she brought you to safety, but don’t you believe a word of it!” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, I’m sure this is perfectly safe. Please, I want you to leave. Now.” Nettie shook her head. She stood close to Isabella and took hold of her hand, lifting it to her own cheek so that Isabella could feel the deep, hardened ridges of her scars. Isabella wanted to yank her hand away but didn’t, not wanting to anger Nettie. 

“D’you feel them?” Nettie said in a strange, sing-song voice, her brown eyes boring into Isabella's, hypnotizing her. “My skin used to be soft, like yours, even smoother. Now he’s marked me. I thought I was safe, just like you, but I wasn’t. And there’s others not as lucky as me. Others who lived here.” 

“Others—” 

“So you’re not safe here. None of us is. That woman’s brought you right into the Beast’s lair!” As Isabella stared at the strange girl in mute shock, Nettie backed out and slammed the door, leaving as suddenly as she had come.


	4. Chapter 4

Nettie's words continued to ring in Isabella's mind, even after the intense young woman had run down the hall. Only the sound of Alicia's booming voice broke the spell. 

“Nettie! What were you doing in there?” 

“Nothin’.” 

“I told you to leave Miss Lang be. I’ll not have you frightening half the lodgers in this house!” 

Nettie’s reply was too quiet and muffled to be understood, as was Alicia's subsequent response. When Isabella heard the landlady’s steps continue toward her room, she hurried to wrap the borrowed dressing gown around her before the inevitable knock came on her door. “Come in,” Isabella called, tugging the silken belt around her waist. The door opened to reveal Alicia, now wearing a stunning jade green satin gown, her brown hair pulled up in a formal style that Isabella couldn’t have reproduced without a set of blueprints. 

“I thought I would see if everything is to your liking. You look much refreshed, Miss Lang.” 

“I am. And please call me Isabella. I know it may seem forward to you, but I’m used to much less formal terms of address.” 

“If that would make you comfortable, certainly.” Alicia kept her hand on the glass doorknob, twisting it. “I noticed that Nettie was in here. I must apologize if she’s disturbed you in any way.” 

“No, not at all,” Isabella lied. 

“Good. I expect you’re just being polite, but I hope whatever she said, you won’t pay too much attention. As I said, she’s been unsettled since the incident.” Isabella decided she couldn’t hide her morbid curiosity any longer—and besides, it wouldn’t be natural to do so. 

“She mentioned some sort of beast. Is that what hurt her? Is it an animal, or—” 

“Goodness, you mustn’t heed her ghoulish fancies! She told that tale to all and sundry after her attack, but even the likes of the Pall Mall Gazette and other dreadful journals won’t use it. Just the neighborhood children and silly girls like Nettie...” Alicia's cheeks turned pinker. “Of course, I daresay she has more of a reason to fear him than others.” 

“She said something about this being his lair.” Alicia tsked and came further into the room. 

“This criminal, whoever he is, has no ‘lair’ as far as I know. He’s struck a few different places, twice on other blocks closer to Bloomsbury. There’s no reason to think—” 

“She also said there were others who lived here. Others he attacked.” Pulling at a strand of her long hair, Alicia nodded slowly. 

“Well, that is true. But the last was many months ago. Indeed, I believe this building is even more safe than the others on this block. One of my dearest friends is a detective, and we often have him and his policeman friend to visit. No one would be so foolish as to harm one of our lodgers with such men on guard. You may even meet them this evening.” 

Isabella felt a little better, though hardly reassured simply by the presence of some policemen. Shaking off her nervousness, she smiled and thanked Alicia, and then turned her attention to much lighter matters. 

“You look lovely, Miss Thomas. That gown is incredible.” Her face beaming, Alicia looked down at her elaborate evening dress. 

“That is very kind of you to say. My friends and I are off to the Olympic Theatre tonight, and I want to look my best. And if I’m to address you by your first name, you must call me Alicia.” 

Again she left the room, allowing Isabella privacy to dress. Finally alone with her thoughts, Isabella breathed a sigh of relief and took a seat on the edge of her bed. She clutched the clothing and stared into the crackling fire, allowing her mind the luxury of wandering. Isabella realized she was reluctant to change into this undeniably beautiful but unfamiliar wardrobe; accepting the clothes felt as if she were, at least temporarily, giving up the thought of returning home to her career, her loved ones and her beloved dog Sadie. Stop being so melodramatic, Isabella thought with a lift of her chin. I need to dress appropriately for the era, no matter what, or I’ll look like a madwoman or get locked up for indecency! Besides, she admitted as she lifted the heavy bronze satin gown, it’s a chance to play dress-up. Explore a whole new world, a whole new time. I’ve truly entered an Arthur Conan Doyle story—why not enjoy it while I can? 

Despite her newly buoyant attitude, when she later tried to fit her figure into the confines of a 19th-century corset, the word ‘enjoy’ was nowhere near her lips. “Oh... God!” she gasped while pulling on the corset strings with all her might, lying on the bed in an effort to help herself into this sadistic monstrosity. “How’m I supposed to breathe in this thing? No wonder Victorian women had those fainting couches!” 

Finally laced up, she stood with some difficulty and managed to get into the satin gown, buttoning what seemed to be hundreds of buttons from head to toe. At last she tottered her way over to the large oval mirror standing in a corner of the room. Her eyes widened at her appearance. Dressing like this wouldn’t become a habit when—if—she returned home, but she had to acknowledge that the effect of her corset-tightened waist and pushed-up breasts was astonishing. The satin against her skin felt decidedly sensuous and opulent, as was the gentle rustling sound as she walked. “This stuff could grow on me,” she murmured to her reflection. The only thing that hadn’t been provided for her was footwear. Though she knew Alicia had invited her to use the servants’ bell pull, she couldn’t help feeling awkward about doing so. It just wasn’t her nature to bother a housemaid for something she could ask for herself. So instead, Isabella headed downstairs to find one of the servants, a journey that would have gone much faster if she’d been dressed in her favorite pair of comfy jeans. Arriving on the ground floor, she heard Alicia's voice floating through the narrow corridor, apparently coming from the open glass doors at the end of the hall. Isabella moved to what looked like a parlor and entered. Alicia wasn’t speaking to either a servant or one of the other female lodgers. Standing in the elaborately-decorated parlor were two men, both in formal evening wear. One was tall and broad shouldered, with a thick golden mustache and slicked-back hair that betrayed its natural wave. His pleasant, ruddy face wore a smile as he chatted with Alicia. As attractive as he was, it was his companion who inexplicably made Isabella's heart slam against her ribcage. His muscular figure was draped in a perfectly fitted, inky black tail coat, which covered a dark red brocade waistcoat, cream-colored shirt, and silken black cravat at his throat. He was in profile to Isabella, but what she could see of his face and straight, light brown hair looked oddly familiar to her. But she couldn't place him, certainly not from this angle. 

She walked toward Alicia slowly, her presence announced by the softly creaking floorboards. Alicia turned and welcomed Isabella with a smile. “My dear, the clothes suit you beautifully. Come in and meet my friends!” 

“I don’t mean to interrupt, I just came to ask you for some shoes....” Isabella began, a bit embarrassed to discuss her situation in front of the newcomers. But she didn’t want to leave, not without seeing the stranger’s face. 

“Do let me introduce you,” Alicia said, a twinkle in her brown eyes—almost as if she knew Isabella's thoughts. She nodded first toward the large man with the ruddy complexion. “Isabella, may I present Inspector Hollis Pargeter. Miss Isabella Lang.” 

“Pleased to meet you, miss,” the policeman said with a charming smile, taking Isabella's hand and bowing gracefully. “And this silent gentleman here is my dear friend Mr. Ivar Lothbrok, the—” 

“—consulting detective,” Isabella said softly, all at once remembering where she’d seen this man before. He was the one whose engraved portrait had so mesmerized her in Gresse Street Secrets. When he turned to her, the full view of his face—especially the piercing blue eyes that now looked directly at Isabella—confirmed her estimation of the strikingly attractive man depicted in the illustration. If anything, the artist had underplayed his subject’s magnetism. Isabella was stunned as his gaze met hers, her lungs seizing mid inhale; her breathing was already constricted by the corset, but now she felt as if all the oxygen had been sucked from the room. 

“So you’ve heard of him, Miss Lang? Ah, Lothbrok, more evidence of your renown,” Hollis Pargeter said to the other man with an amused smile. Ivar Lothbrok bowed his head and held out his gloved hand. 

“The hazards of publicity in this day and age,” he murmured. “A man cannot earn a reputation with a new acquaintance; he must borrow against the one already existing. Accurate or not.”   
Unusually shy, Isabella placed her fingertips on his in greeting. The warmth of his skin radiated through the pearl gray material, and even this light touch felt strangely intimate. The feeling intensified when he added in a low, gentle voice, “Your servant, Miss Lang.” 

“Thank you, sir,” she said, returning the greeting in kind. “And you don’t need to worry about your reputation having preceded you. I only know your profession because—because Alicia told me of it.” Alicia's eyebrow rose, but she said nothing. When Ivar straightened, his gaze examined her with the force of a laser beam. He took in her face and hair—which was still damp and loose, utterly inappropriate for meeting a strange gentleman— and in one swift glance seemed to make an assessment of her figure as well. 

“You are new to town, Miss Lang?” he asked, his head tilting. 

“Yes, Mr. Lothbrok.” 

“Yes.” He repeated her word but seemed to be talking to himself, as if preoccupied with a difficult math problem. “You seem a woman very much out of place. I’d say you’ve not set foot in London before this week—possibly not even before today.” Isabella stared at him, surprised, but Alicia chuckled and slipped her hand through the crook of Isabella's elbow. 

“Now, Ivar, none of your puzzle-solving tonight! Let the girl get acclimated here before placing her beneath your magnifying glass.” 

“Indeed,” Hollis said. “You must excuse my friend, Miss Lang. He’s never met a person he doesn’t want to dissect like a specimen in a laboratory.” Ivar darted a swift glance at the policeman, and when he returned to look at Isabella a hint of color had risen in his cheeks. 

“I beg your pardon. I did not mean to make you uncomfortable.” 

“Not at all, Mr. Lothbrok.” But he did make her uncomfortable. Not a bad sort of uncomfortable. Being around him was like getting too close to a caged lion at a zoo. She sensed a curious frisson of danger, something electric. But captivating and thrilling, too; she wanted to get closer, to move inside the bars of the cage. She had no idea why he inspired this sudden desire, but she stemmed it and forced herself to continue the polite conversation. “Alicia mentioned that you are off to the theater tonight?” 

“Yes,” Hollis replied cheerfully. “We are attending a concert at the Olympic. A symphony or some such thing.” 

“An opera,” Alicia said, laughing. “I’m afraid Inspector Pargeter has no ear for music.” Isabella sent him a teasing smile. 

“Surely one doesn’t need that much of an ear to tell the difference between an orchestra and an opera singer.” Hollis chuckled good-naturedly, brushing his bushy mustache with a finger. She could feel Ivar watching her and knew he was about to speak before he opened his mouth. 

“Do you have a preference for music, Miss Lang? Opera, symphony... ?” 

“I love the operas I’ve seen, though I haven’t had a chance to attend as often as I’d like. I’m often too busy at the library—” She suddenly clamped her mouth shut. 

“The library? An avid reader, are you, then?” 

“Very much so, Mr. Pargeter.” Realizing that there was nothing wrong with a bit of honesty, she added, “I am also a librarian.” 

“A librarian? How very... odd.” 

“Refreshing, I should think,” Alicia said tartly. “Women can be far more organized and studious than our male counterparts. Most of you are hopeless at even remembering where you’ve placed your pipes from one day to another. I exclude you, of course, Ivar, as your organizational skills are legend.” 

“I appreciate the exception.” Ivar bowed slightly, a tilted smile crinkling the corner of his mouth. Then, briefly glancing at Isabella, he continued to address Alicia. “Since Mrs. Bulstrode is unwell and cannot attend tonight, I wonder if you might not ask Miss Lang to take her place.” Alicia's eyes widened with pleasure. 

“What a marvelous suggestion. Isabella, please do! Otherwise I shall have to stay at home.” Isabella was about to ask why Alicia couldn’t attend without Mrs. Bulstrode, whoever she was, but she suspected that the reason was the perceived impropriety of an unmarried woman attending a public event with two gentlemen. 

“That’s very kind of you, but I don't know if I—” 

“Please?” Alicia hugged her arm encouragingly. Close to Isabella's ear, she whispered, “Is it the dress that worries you? You may borrow any of my gowns!” The invitation was tempting. Isabella would love to attend a gala event, especially in the company of an illustrious detective... and such a gorgeous one, at that. But she’d planned to sneak off and search for Gresse Street Secrets. She suspected the book held the key to her return home, and the longer it stayed missing, the greater the chance that Isabella wouldn’t be able to leave. As charming a place as 19th century London was to visit, she didn’t want to stay here forever. 

Before she could decline the invitation, she caught the steady, blue gaze of Ivar, who seemed to be measuring her yet again. Not just measuring her: challenging her. A flicker of defiance and an undeniable pull of desire rose in her chest and she couldn’t refuse. Besides, she thought to convince herself, I’d be an awful mystery fan if I didn’t take full advantage of meeting a real-life Sherlock Holmes! 

“Very well,” Isabella said. “Thank you for your generous offer.” With Isabella's agreement, Alicia quickly whisked her toward her room and lent her a beautiful crimson gown that suited Isabella's coloring perfectly. Dot, the lady’s maid, was brought in to style Isabella's hair, and the girl turned out to be a true artist with a comb and curling tongs: Isabella's long, curly hair was transformed into a beautifully shaped sculpture atop her head. She’d never seen anything like it, certainly not on herself, and she couldn’t help staring at her reflection in the full-length mirror when all the primping was complete. She looked like a fashion doll. When she and Alicia returned to the parlor, Hollis’s mouth parted in surprise, and then he complimented both women profusely. Alicia blushed at the praise, but Isabella's breathing was quickened more by Ivar's silence and heavy stare. He seemed far more impressed than his polite nod of greeting would indicate. 

The rain had subsided by the time the foursome entered their hackney coach to ride to the theater, a fairly long journey southeast to Drury Lane. Isabella was glad of the time spent opposite Ivar, though the bumpiness of the carriage ride was a lot less romantic than the historical novels she’d read had led her to believe. As the carriage pulled up to the Olympic Theatre, Isabella took in the sight with awe and excitement. It was a smaller hall than she’d expected, but what it lacked in grandeur it made up for in what the 21st century media would call buzz. All along Wych Street was a line of coaches and smaller two-seater hansom cabs, with elegantly-dressed patrons emerging to attend what Isabella had been told was the English-language premiere of Tchaikovsky’s latest opera, Eugene Onegin. The multitude of people made Isabella feel somewhat claustrophobic, especially since the ladies’ gowns were much more voluminous than she was used to, but the excitement and novelty were so thrilling that she soon got used to the crush of the crowd. 

Ivar steered her through the throng with the skill of an expert shepherd; Hollis did the same for Alicia. When they reached their box seats on the second tier, Isabella noticed Ivar heaving a small sigh of relief once the door was closed. “Do crowds bother you, Mr. Lothbrok?” she asked gently as he pulled out one of the gilded chairs for her to take her seat. He seemed taken aback for a second, his blinking eyes the only response. When he sat down, to her left, he was cool once more. 

“I must own that I do not have a preference for them,” he admitted. “They are a necessary evil.” 

“Necessary for what?” Ivar looked down at the hall, his attention focusing on the orchestra in front of the stage. “For this,” he said quietly. The timbre of his voice was low and almost reverent. 

“Music means so much to you?” He busied himself with looking at the program, a single ivory card that he held in his gloved fingers before offering it to her. 

“Certainly,” he said offhandedly. “Does it not, to you? You mentioned your own appreciation of it earlier.” 

“True. I can’t believe I’m actually going to see a premiere! It’s unbelievable.” She read the beautifully printed program to drink it all in. “What is your favorite opera, Mr. Lothbrok?” 

“Don Giovanni,” he said without hesitation. “It is Mozart’s masterpiece.” She raised her eyebrow. It was an interesting choice—the darkest, most passionate opera by a man whose music was so intricate and elegant. Hidden depths. I like that in a guy. He glanced at her. “And your own?” 

“That’s easy. La Bohème.” Ivar frowned, a line wrinkling his brow. “That is unfamiliar to me. Who is the composer?” 

“Puccini. But you must have heard of it, it’s one of the most famous—” Isabella noticed the genuine lack of recognition in Ivar's face and suddenly her own face flamed with a blush. It probably hasn’t been composed yet. Damn it, girl, get a grip! Remember where and when you are! 

“I must bow to your superior expertise,” Ivar said wryly, examining her with new interest. “I didn’t think there was a famous work I’d not heard of, but I suppose there are gaps in everyone’s knowledge.” 

“Even yours?” His lips betrayed a smile. 

“Even mine. Though I assure you, I find everything out eventually. Knowledge does not long elude me.” Hollis Pargeter, seated to Isabella's right, laughed. 

“He’s right, I’m afraid, Miss Lang. If you’ve any secrets you wish to keep hidden, you’d best avoid Lothbrok here.” 

“Really? I’m pretty good at research myself. Maybe I’ll learn his secrets first.” She might have imagined it, but she thought she felt Ivar's muscles stiffening beside her. But his expression was unchanged as he looked away, back at the orchestra. Nothing further was said before the conductor arrived and the performance began. 

* * * 

The second act had just started and Hollis already seemed restless. His shifting and fidgeting annoyed Isabella tremendously, as she happened to be enjoying the performance. “Are you alright, Mr. Pargeter?” she whispered. 

“He cannot bear anything longer than a music hall performance,” Ivar murmured. He himself seemed transfixed, as comfortable in his surroundings as Hollis was edgy. 

“It’s just these operas take all night. I apologize, ladies. I find it difficult to sit still for such a lengthy amount of time.” Feeling sorry for the broad man sitting on the dainty opera chair, Isabella patted his arm. 

“Cheer up, Mr. Pargeter,” she said playfully. “We have a saying back home. The opera ain’t over till the fat lady—” An ear-splitting scream echoed through the theater, cutting her off. The orchestra and singers fell silent as the woman’s outcries continued. By the time Isabella turned around, she discovered Ivar vaulting fluidly over the barrier separating their box from the next, racing to the source of the shrieks. Hollis followed suit. 

Isabella's gown wouldn’t allow her the same mobility, so she left the box the traditional way, using the door to the ivory-walled corridor. Alicia was right behind her. The women found Ivar and Hollis standing next to a frantic gray-haired woman with a fur lined wrap and a silver satin gown. 

“What's wrong?” Isabella demanded, her eyes wildly darting from the woman to Ivar. 

“My necklace!” The woman’s words were a wail, and she clutched Ivar's arm like a drowning person grabbing onto a life preserver. “It's been stolen!” Isabella found her gaze glued to Ivar, who was already pushing his way back into the box where the woman had been seated. The woman seemed shocked that he hadn’t asked her any further questions. 

“What on earth—I already know my necklace isn’t to be found anywhere in the box! Why is he doing that?” A shiver of delight rippled through Isabella's mystery-loving frame as she watched. 

“Because,” she said softly, thinking of the world’s most famous fictional detective. “The game is afoot.”


	5. Chapter 5

Before long, a pair of police officers arrived on the scene, conferring with Hollis and the opera patron who was still loudly bemoaning the loss of her necklace. “It was an heirloom,” she said miserably. “My great-aunt bequeathed it to me.” 

“Yes, madam, but what precisely is missing?” She clutched her throat and glared at Hollis. 

“My necklace, of course! Do you think I went bare-necked to the opera?” 

“He’s only trying to help, Mamma.” The pretty young woman beside the victim patted her mother’s arm. She gave Hollis a weak smile. “Forgive us, this is very shocking.” 

“Of course, miss. Could you describe the necklace?” 

“It has three strands of gold with emeralds, diamonds and pearls.” The woman dabbed at her eyes. “It was from India!” 

Isabella listened with interest but most of her attention was on Ivar, who was alone inside the box now. He had knelt to the floor and was running a hand along the plush red carpet. His blue eyes narrowed as he neared the door to the box; he remained in place for some time, brow furrowed, nostrils flared, and fingers plucking almost absently at the carpet nap. One might have thought he was paying no attention to the conversation going on outside the box, but when the woman’s daughter asked Hollis if they were going to question their friends, Ivar suddenly snapped his head toward the crowd in the corridor. “Earlier you told Inspector Pargeter that the two of you were alone in the box.” 

“We were,” the woman said. “But we rode with our neighbors, the Carrisfords, in their carriage. Their box is across the hall. Oh, I can’t bear the thought of some horrid person wearing my great-aunt’s jewels!” 

“I doubt it will come to that,” Ivar murmured as he stood once more, brushing his hands together. “Far too recognizable a piece to sell on its own. No, I expect the gems will be detached and sold separately, probably to different dealers throughout London.” This only set the woman off into further tears, and Isabella scowled at Ivar for his insensitive comment. 

“You shouldn’t say things like that,” she murmured, stepping nearer to him. “Can’t you see you’re upsetting her?” 

“Upsetting though it may be, the truth must be said.” 

“Why? Maybe you’ll find the necklace. Can’t you give her some hope?” Ivar swiveled, and she was all at once aware of his nearness to her in the confined space behind the gilded chairs. 

“Do you prefer a pleasant fantasy to the truth, Miss Lang?” 

“We’re not talking about me. As a matter of fact, I value the truth very highly. But sometimes discretion is kinder.” His lips curled slightly. 

“There are some things one must hide, I’ll grant you: matters of state, matters of life and death. This is not such an instance.” 

“Right, it’s just a woman’s feelings. Not important enough to a great man like you.” 

“Chide me if you must, but my profession is all about seeking and revealing the truth.” 

“That doesn’t give you license to be a jerk.” Her bluntness made him lean back, one eyebrow lifting. 

“Jerk?” 

“Uh... yes, it’s a... it’s a word we use back home. I guess it means—” 

“You needn’t translate. I believe I got the gist of it.” He seemed amused rather than affronted, and with a slight bow left her side to speak to the victim. “Mrs. Mandeville, your daughter mentioned your friends. Where are they?” 

“I don’t see what they have to do with this, they didn’t even stay. In the meantime some thief has made off with my jewels! Why aren’t you off seeking—” 

“Mamma, please,” the daughter said worriedly, and then looked back at Ivar with doe-like green eyes. “I beg your indulgence, Mr. Lothbrok. We’re both distraught.” 

“Do not apologize for me, Celestina! If I want to apologize—” 

“Madam, Miss Mandeville, please. Anyone can see how distressed you both are. No need for such explanations.” Though he addressed both mother and daughter, his eyes were only for the young woman. Isabella felt a strange flicker of jealousy at the close inspection Ivar was making of the girl’s lovely face and perfectly curled flaxen hair. “So Miss Mandeville, your friends, the Carrisfords... they live in Mayfair, do they not?” 

“Why, yes. How did you—” 

“I recall seeing the name in a newspaper item; I forget the details now. And they have left the theater?” 

“Yes, Mrs. Carrisford was taken ill. Her family thought it best to cut the evening short.” 

“An eventful night,” Ivar murmured. “Enough tragedies to put Tchaikovsky’s opera to shame.” Turning back to the mother, he tilted his head. “Madam, do you wish me to look into the case?” 

“We can take it from here, sir,” one of the constables said with a resentful glare directed at Ivar. Hollis’s expression was outwardly serious but his eyes twinkled at his friend. “This is rather our line of work, Lothbrok. If this were a more vexing case—” 

“The woman’s jewels were stolen right off her throat, either while she was walking to her seat, or—even more curiously— while she was seated in an enclosed area. No one noticed anything, or saw anyone coming or going from the box. I’d call it a vexing case myself.” 

“I would be most grateful if you’d take this on, Mr. Lothbrok.” Mrs. Mandeville’s change of heart surprised everyone. “It isn’t that I don’t trust you and your men, Inspector,” she added to Hollis. “But well... this is Ivar Lothbrok. They say he’s a wizard! One must engage the best.” Her daughter practically cringed at her mother’s words, but while the constable looked offended, Hollis simply shrugged. 

“You may hire whom you like, Mrs. Mandeville. We’ll just go about our inspection. Miss, would you please show me your exact course through the theater tonight? Every step you took might offer a clue.” He winked at Ivar. “I’ll leave you to your wizardry. Or shall we be taking the same path throughout the building?” 

“No, I rather think not. Miss Mandeville, before you go, I wish to thank you for your assistance.” Ivar took her hand and bowed low over it, kissing it lightly. Isabella raised an eyebrow at the romantic gesture, irritation again rising in her breast. Apparently guys are the same no matter what the century, she thought as she shared a wry look with Alicia. A helpless little thing and they fall all over her. By the time the policemen and Celestina Mandeville left, the small crowd watching them had returned to their seats in the hall, and the sounds of the orchestra and singers again floated through the air. “Perhaps you ladies should return to the box,” Ivar said, turning to Isabella and Alicia. “It would be a shame for you to miss any more of the performance.” 

“You may be right, Ivar,” Alicia said. “Isabella?” 

“I’d rather stay right here, if I may.” 

“I must admit, so would I. But I thought you were enjoying the opera.” 

“I was. But this is the performance I’d really like to see! A criminal investigation by a real detective!” Ivar's gaze measured her again, curiosity dancing in the depths of his eyes. 

“You are an unusual woman, to be sure, Miss Lang.” As he returned to questioning Mrs. Mandeville, Isabella murmured under her breath, “You don’t know the half of it.” 

* * * 

To Isabella's disappointment, Ivar's questioning didn’t last long, and it seemed strangely disconnected. He asked Mrs. Mandeville innumerable questions about herself and her daughter, their friends and acquaintances, but little about their movements that evening. And one question that seemed a natural to her was left unasked. So when he was through and had offered to escort Mrs. Mandeville to find her daughter, Isabella spoke up, surprising everyone. 

“Mrs. Mandeville, may I ask you if the jewels are insured?” Ivar sent her a speculative look while the older woman frowned. 

“I beg your pardon?” 

“The necklace. It was an heirloom, worth thousands of pounds. The insurance must be worth quite a lot.” The longer she spoke, the more Isabella realized her words sounded like an accusation. “I mean, I was just wondering if you’re... if you’re covered. You know, if worse comes to worst and the necklace isn’t found.” 

“Of course it’s insured. My late husband arranged for all that. Why is this woman asking me questions? Why on earth—” 

“She’s an assistant,” Ivar said lightly, a response that pacified Mrs. Mandeville. “We are both glad to hear that your interests are protected, madam. Ah, and here are Pargeter and your daughter. From the looks on their faces we may assume they’ve had no luck.” As the mother and daughter reunited, Alicia clutched at Isabella's arm and asked in a scandalized tone, “What made you ask such a thing?” Ivar gave Isabella a crooked smile. 

“I thought you valued discretion.” 

“I was just asking something that seemed pretty obvious. I may only be a detective’s assistant,” she added with a hint of sharpness, “but even I know that there might be an easy solution to all this.” 

“I am all fascination. Pray tell me your solution.” 

“She must stand to gain an awful lot if she puts in a claim. Since no one saw anything, not even her daughter, maybe she didn’t lose the necklace at all.” 

“A possibility.” 

“Well, then why didn’t you ask the question yourself? It’s such a basic thing, Detective Work 101!” Both Ivar and Alicia looked surprised, and Isabella felt her face burn. “Something we say back home. It’s a reference to a first-year university course—” 

“I am able to grasp your idioms, Miss Lang, odd though they may be.” His tone was neutral, not angry. Of course, Isabella could tell that he was a man who kept a tight rein on his emotions. “I was unaware that you were in the consulting detective profession.” 

“I’m not. I was just trying to help.” 

“Ivar, please forgive her. She’s had a difficult day” Ivar lifted a shoulder and let it fall again. 

“Then we should not prolong it. I’ll escort you two home.” Isabella's mouth parted. 

“Aren’t you going to keep looking for the necklace?” 

“Time enough for that tomorrow.” 

“Tomorrow? But if someone’s stolen it, isn’t time of the essence—” 

“My dear Miss Lang, you seem incapable of believing that I know how to do my job. Kindly trust that before I met you, I was quite successful and managed to solve a case or two.” They were now walking down the gently sloping corridor, heading to the grand staircase. Again she felt the warmth and strength of his hand resting on her back, guiding her, though now there was no crowd to push through. 

“It isn’t that, Mr. Lothbrok,” she said. “I just want to understand your thinking.” 

“And I prefer to keep my methods to myself.” He smiled and again the light seemed to dance in his blue eyes. “Pure self protection. It is not wise to give up one’s trade secrets to a potential competitor.” Isabella grinned back at him.

“I’m surprised you’d consider a woman to be competition. Earlier you thought it strange that a woman could manage to be a librarian.” 

“I never said that. I found it odd that you are a librarian.” 

“Why?” He didn’t answer and they walked down the stairs, and then out into the cold autumn night. First Ivar helped Alicia enter the carriage, and then, before helping Isabella climb inside, he finally gave her a reply. “You strike me as an adventurous woman,” he said eventually. “Not one found behind a desk surrounded by mere stories of adventures.” 

“But books are filled with adventure and magic.” Isabella looked up into his face, turned golden by the street lamps. Her smile was playful but nervous. “In fact, I’ve recently learned just how magical they can be.” 

“And that’s what you wish for? Magic? Not all that is magical is worth pursuing, Miss Lang.” His words were shaded by something Isabella couldn’t identify, and she didn’t know how to answer him. His eyes were slightly narrowed, the same expression he’d worn when examining the box for clues. “There is an air about you,” he murmured, searching her face. “Something... I’ve not seen before. I cannot make it out.” 

“People aren’t puzzles to be solved.” Her heart beat heavily. She was intensely attracted to this man. But where could this possibly go? At any moment, she might be swept back to the future, she might wake up from this bizarre dream. 

“You seem distressed,” he murmured, concern now replacing the curiosity in his eyes. “I beg your pardon. Have I upset you in some way?” 

“No. Not at all.” 

“It does not take a wizard to identify sorrow. Your face is quite expressive, Miss Lang; it is a face that can keep few secrets.” 

“You’d be surprised,” she said lightly, and then invented an explanation for her change of mood. “To be honest, I’m just disappointed that I won’t get to see you in action. Detecting, that is. I was hoping to watch you at work, but you weren’t at it very long tonight.” Nodding, he helped her climb into the carriage—something she did with difficulty even with his hand clasping hers for balance— and waited as she took her seat beside Alicia. Ivar then hopped in gracefully and sat opposite the two women, tapping on the roof with his umbrella to start the carriage off. 

“If that is all that’s troubling you,” he said, continuing their discussion, “it’s easily remedied. You may accompany me on my investigation tomorrow, if you wish. Both of you may.” Alicia laughed. 

“Accompany you? Down to some cut-purse’s hideout or seedy pawnbroker?” Ivar looked across at Isabella, who beamed at him with gratitude. 

“I think your new friend would be willing, even delighted, to go on such an adventure. Would you not, Miss Lang?” I’d accompany you anywhere, Isabella wanted to say, the impulse so strong it actually alarmed her. 

“An adventure is precisely what I seek, Mr. Lothbrok, but there are limits even to my own recklessness.” The rolling wheels against the cobblestones of the street jostled them, but Isabella kept her gaze steady on Ivar. He paused as if digesting her words. When he spoke his tone was casual. 

“I am glad to hear it. In any event, no recklessness is necessary for attending my schedule tomorrow, and if you come with me, you’ll be taken nowhere more dangerous than Mayfair.” Isabella remembered hearing the name earlier that evening, and she put two and two together at once. 

“That’s where Mrs. Mandeville’s friends live. The Carrisfords. You think they might have seen something?” Ivar's mouth curled. 

“Your memory is excellent. I believe you might make a good detective’s assistant after all.” 

* * * 

When Isabella's eyes opened and she saw the sun slanting through the windows, it took her several seconds to remember where—and when—she was. Her body ached as if she’d walked thirty miles, probably the result of her corset digging into her ribs all day and the shoes that didn’t quite fit and the dozens of hairpins jabbed into her head.... And traveling back in time more than a hundred years, she thought as she turned over in bed, staring out at the unfamiliar room. That’s gotta be a shock to the system all on its own! She couldn’t believe she was still here. She’d gone to bed last night certain that she’d wake up back at home, on her sofa, holding that Gresse Street Secrets book with Sadie nagging her for breakfast. Sadie! 

Isabella sat up abruptly, suddenly afraid. What would her dog do without her? She relaxed when she remembered her neighbor, a retired dog-lover who came in every day to keep Sadie company while Isabella was at work. Okay, at least Sadie is taken care of. Besides, who knows how much time is passing by in the future? Maybe I’ll return exactly where I started, with no missing time at all. Assuming I do return. Now she was worried anew. How would she get back? 

The 19th century was full of interesting places and people, no question about that, but Isabella didn’t want to stay here permanently. Even with her new interest in a certain detective with intoxicating blue eyes and soft, touchable light brown hair she hadn’t yet touched but dearly wanted to.... “Oh God, this is crazy!” She fell back down to the bed, staring up at the ceiling. “He’s a repressed Victorian guy with a superiority complex and no clue about modern women. Why am I so damn drawn to him? I have to focus on getting   
back!” 

Gresse Street Secrets was the only real connection from her present to the past. Or rather, from her current present to her future. This time-travel stuff is complicated! I’m getting a headache. Running a hand through her bedraggled hair, she yawned and got up. As she did, a knock on her door announced the arrival of a housemaid, who entered, lit the fire, and placed a set of clothes on the edge of the bed. Fortunately there was a room with a bath down the hall, which relieved Isabella tremendously. The water wasn’t as hot as she preferred, but considering the maid had carried the pails full of hot water up two flights, Isabella wasn’t surprised— and she certainly wasn’t going to complain. This time she accepted the assistance of the lady’s maid with her petticoats, corset, bustle and at last the gown itself. It was the same lovely bronze-colored dress trimmed with ivory lace that she’d worn briefly yesterday. Isabella had to admit it looked much better now with Dot’s help. The maid fastened the corset strings far tighter than Isabella could tolerate, and Isabella begged her to loosen them. Dot clearly disapproved of the not-as-thin waistline that resulted, but Isabella didn’t care. To hell with pride, she needed to breathe! 

She headed to the dining room downstairs looking every inch the proper Victorian lady, even though her plans were hardly normal for a woman of the day: first, hunting for the time-traveling book; second, observing a detective in his search for a missing necklace. As long as she was here, she also wanted to see the sights, if possible. What a unique opportunity for anyone who loved literature, to be right in the thick of Victorian London! The trouble was, she had no money. If she was truly stuck here, she’d need to earn some—she couldn’t expect Alicia to let her to stay and eat here for nothing forever. The thought weighed heavily enough to affect her appetite, which was probably for the best since the breakfast was a thick porridge, some sort of boiled meat, and toast. The latter was all she ate, and it was actually quite delicious with marmalade. The tea was warm and just sweet enough thanks to a dollop of honey. Isabella would have preferred the delicious coffee she loved from Sherwoods, but this was a good start to her first full day in this strange new world. 

Because it was a Sunday, Isabella was able to meet many of her fellow lodgers since none of the women were working. Nettie Ashdown sat next to her, silent and pensive during the meal, but when they were through and Isabella rose to her feet, Nettie stood up abruptly and pleaded with Isabella to join her in the parlor. 

“Just wanted to say I’m sorry, miss,” Nettie said, holding Isabella's hand. “I know I came across bad yesterday. I just wanted to warn you. Some of my friends is dead ’cause of the Beast, and— and you see what he done to me.” She bent her head shyly. “You will be careful, won’tcha?” 

“I’ll try my best. I’m sorry about your friends. How many—” 

“Six girls in all, including me, but at least I made it. I’m the only one.” Nettie sounded proud, and Isabella couldn’t blame her. 

“How awful. Have the police found any sign of the man responsible?” 

“A beast, that’s what it is. I told you that.” 

“Of course, yes. But the police must be investigating all this. What have they—” 

“You went out with ’em last night.” 

“Oh, you know about that? Yes. Well, one of them was a policeman. Inspector Pargeter. Mr. Lothbrok isn’t an actual—” 

“What was he like? Was he kind to you? What did he say?” Nettie had a dreamy look in her eyes. “He’s ever so handsome, isn’t he?” Isabella was surprised and a bit self-conscious. Nettie must have a crush on Ivar Lothbrok—not that Isabella blamed her—and Isabella didn’t want to admit that she, too, found Ivar incredibly attractive. 

“He was very pleasant. Both of them were.” Nettie smiled. Though the horrible scars had taken their toll, Isabella could see the vestiges of the girl’s beauty. 

“I’m glad. We can be friends, can’t we, miss? You ain’t scared of me?” 

“Not at all. Sure, we can be friends! And I’m not miss, I’m Isabella.” She squeezed Nettie’s hand and returned the smile. 

“Will you be seein’ him again, mi—er, Isabella?” 

“Yes. Later today, in fact.” 

“Ooh! Will you greet him for me? Will you tell him Nettie asked after him?” 

“Why, sure. Do you know Mr. Lothbrok that well?” Isabella regretted asking the question almost instantly; it was as if a light had been extinguished in Nettie’s brown eyes. Apparently Isabella had embarrassed her. Nettie shook her head and turned away. 

“No. No. I don’t know him at all,” she muttered, and with a tight shrug she backed off and hurried from the room before Isabella could apologize. Alicia entered the room and noticed Isabella's dismay. 

“Did that girl bother you again?” 

“To the contrary. I bothered her. Maybe she thought I was mocking her or making light of her feelings....” 

“What do you mean?” Isabella just shook her head, not wanting to betray Nettie’s trust, especially to Alicia. The two women didn’t get along very well, which did make Isabella curious as to why Nettie was living here, or why Alicia allowed her to. 

“Alicia, I must thank you again for your hospitality. This beautiful dress, and the room and meal... I owe you a great deal.” 

“The room and dress weren’t being used, so your borrowing them is no great favor. The meal, I grant you—except you ate almost nothing of it. I hope you’re not planning on starving yourself simply because you don’t wish to get into debt!” 

“I’m too excited to eat,” Isabella said, only slightly a lie. “But I do feel indebted to you. I need to earn my keep somehow. I can’t rely on your generosity for long.” 

“We’ll find you a position. Perhaps in a bookshop.” Alicia's brown eyes were warm with sympathy. “Can you tell me anything of your past yet? Why you cannot return home? Where home is? I assure you, I’m as discreet as the day is long—” 

“I’m afraid I can’t speak of it. It’s not that I don’t trust you. I just... it’s terribly complicated.” Nodding in understanding, Alicia patted her arm. 

“We’ll leave it there for now. What are your plans today?” 

“I—I know this sounds strange, but I need to go looking for a book. The one I dropped when I was nearly run over by the carriage.” 

“Good luck to you, then. But you will return in time for us to venture off to Mayfair with Ivar?” Isabella grinned. 

“Try and stop me.” With a knowing smile, Alicia nodded. “You think highly of him, I believe. He seemed to return the esteem—despite your saucy words. Indeed, a little sauciness could do him some good. He’s a fine gentleman but an egotistical one, though there is no doubt his self-merit is well-founded.” 

“My ‘sauciness’ isn’t intended to do him good. I was just speaking my mind.” 

“A match made in heaven. He speaks his mind quite forthrightly.” Alicia's expression suddenly sobered. “Though, if I may warn you, he does have a temper. Despite his demeanor, he can get quite angry. You may wish to bear that in mind.” The concern on her new friend’s face seemed quite sincere, and Isabella had a sense of inexplicable foreboding. She brushed it aside and simply thanked Alicia for the advice before heading out the door to Gresse Street. 

* * * 

Her morning was fruitless, except for meeting several interesting shopkeepers, memorizing the surrounding streets, and having an amusing conversation with Mouse, the paperboy—who was already a brazen flirt despite his youth. But she couldn’t find Gresse Street Secrets anywhere. At first she’d considered searching for another copy, but then recalled that it wouldn’t be written until 1895: three years from now. But she refused to give up. It was an expensive-looking book and, if it hadn’t fallen into a sewer, it might yet be turned in at a pawnbroker or bookshop. In the afternoon, she, Ivar and Alicia were in a carriage bound for Mayfair, the district of central London that Isabella knew best as the setting of Upstairs, Downstairs on TV. When they rolled along Charles Street, Isabella's eyes were wide as she took in the stately townhouses, particularly their destination, a building so white it was nearly blinding in the sun. Ivar and his guests were announced by a tall, dark-haired footman. They were all expected; the detective had sent a message asking for an interview. Mr. and Mrs. Carrisford were as grand as their home, and even their children matched the décor. 

“I must say, we were both alarmed to learn of Mrs. Mandeville’s ill fortune,” the husband said. 

“London has become a very dangerous place, hasn’t it? I expect you are all too aware of that.” Ivar said mildly, “I daresay I am.” 

“Then again, you profit from all this, don’t you? Wouldn’t have a profession otherwise.” 

“True enough. Still, my goal is to put things right again. At any rate, may we discuss last night?” 

“Certainly. I don’t know what you feel we can do to help. We weren’t even there.” 

“That may not be completely accurate. We don’t know when the necklace went missing. Nor do I know when you left the theater.” Ivar directed an inquisitive look to Mrs. Carrisford. “I hope you are no longer indisposed, madam.” 

“I’m feeling very much improved, thank you. It was merely a headache. I get them now and again. I could very well have stayed, but my children feared the music would make me feel worse.” She looked affectionately at her daughter, who was seated by her side. 

“I wanted to stay,” the girl said sullenly, her nose wrinkling. “It was Giles who made such a fuss. He treats you like a child, Mamma.” 

“Were you not in attendance, Mr. Carrisford?” 

“Indeed not. The opera is... not for me. Just my wife, elder son and daughter. Fortunately Giles had the sense to take them all home. My wife shouldn’t have gone in such a state.” 

“Ah.” Ivar glanced at the little boy playing on the floor with a set of tin soldiers. “You said elder son. So this young gentleman isn’t the solicitous Giles?” 

“Certainly not. Where is the boy, Letitia?” 

“I don’t know, dear. Off somewhere.” 

“Well, all this doesn’t help you much, does it, Lothbrok? Yet another brazen theft. I don’t know what this city is coming to.” 

“Your family was burgled as well, not long ago, wasn’t it? I remember reading an item in the Times. Someone broke into your home while you were out and took something... a painting, perhaps.” 

“Deuced good memory you have. Yes, in July. We were in the country and this house was closed up. Only when we returned did we discover someone had got in.” 

“The thief took one of my favorite paintings,” Mrs. Carrisford said dejectedly. 

“Was it very valuable?” 

“Yes. Several thousand pounds.” 

“But not, I should imagine, easy to sell.” Isabella watched Ivar with great interest. He walked around the room slowly as he spoke, apparently doing so idly while asking his questions. But she now recognized the actions of a man on the prowl: he was assessing the family members from head to toe, missing nothing with those keen blue eyes. Even his nostrils flared as if he hoped to catch the scent of the missing jewelry. Noticing that the daughter seemed deathly bored, Isabella sat beside her and engaged her in light conversation. 

“Do you like opera, Miss Carrisford?” 

“Yes indeed. I was so looking forward to attending last night.” 

“Your mother’s headache must have been quite bad if it worried you all enough to leave.” 

“Oh, it was the same as always. My brother forced us to go. He doesn’t like opera and complained of attending in the first place. I think he used Mamma’s headache as an excuse.” 

“Do you really think so?” 

“Probably. Or perhaps he just wanted to get on our father’s good side. Papa dotes on Mamma.” Isabella's questions were interrupted by the footman, who announced the arrival of Mrs. and Miss Mandeville. The family seemed surprised, as if the guests were unexpected. Ivar, however, was nodding almost imperceptibly to himself. Mrs. Mandeville went directly to Mrs. Carrisford. 

“My dear,” the latter said, clasping her friend’s hand. “How terrible. That stunning necklace! The police haven’t found it, have they?” To Isabella's annoyance, Ivar moved to young Celestina Mandeville and greeted her warmly. Apparently she wasn’t the only one to notice his interest in the beautifully flaxen-haired girl; Alicia glanced at her, and Miss Carrisford giggled behind her hand. 

“Celestina is a notorious flirt,” the girl whispered. “Insufferable creature, don’t you think?” 

“I don’t know her.” Isabella kept her voice casual. She saw Celestina smile nervously at Ivar as her gaze darted around the room. Jealousy aside, Isabella didn’t think the girl was flirting back at Ivar at all. She seemed preoccupied. All the separate conversations were halted at once when the door opened again and a handsome young man—not long out of his teens, if at all—stepped inside. 

“Oh I say! I didn’t realize we had company.” 

“I told you Mr. Lothbrok was coming by,” Mr. Carrisford said. His tone was gruff and irritated. “Least you could do was stay here instead of gallivanting off as usual.” The young copper-haired man shrugged off the insult and made a beeline for Mrs. Carrisford, ignoring all the strangers and guests in the room. “How are you feeling, Mamma?” 

“I’m quite well, I assure you, Giles. Goodness, you’d think I was an invalid.” He smiled briefly and then stood, glancing around, his gray gaze taking in the Mandevilles with polite interest before landing on Ivar. 

“So. You’re the detective?” Isabella was surprised by the disdain in his voice. Ivar just lifted the corners of his mouth in what might have been a smile. 

“I must reluctantly acknowledge that I am only a detective.” He took a step closer to Giles as he continued, “And you’re the young man who was so concerned over your mother’s health last night.” 

“Yes.” 

“So you, your mother, your sister, Mrs. Mandeville, and Miss Mandeville attended the opera together, is that right? That was the entire party?” 

“That’s right.” For the next hour, Ivar proceeded to grill all five on every step they’d taken inside the opera house. Then Ivar switched back to the missing painting. 

“...and all of you were off at your country home, is that true?” 

“Yes!” Mr. Carrisford grunted. “But I’ll be dashed if I know how this is relevant. You’re investigating Mrs. Mandeville’s missing necklace, not my painting.” 

“I like to wind my way around, Mr. Carrisford. You’re a hunting man, I presume? Sometimes the straight line isn’t the best way to the fox. Now, were all the servants away from the house as well?” 

“Yes, we close up the house altogether until the season starts. They were all with us.” But Giles, who’d been affecting disinterest, suddenly spoke up. 

“That’s not true, sir. Dunston was here, wasn’t he? At least part of the time. And he has the keys to the house.” All eyes turned to the footman, apparently named Dunston. The man looked astonished and alarmed to have been mentioned in the conversation. Giles rose to his feet. “And what’s more, he was with us at the opera. He rode up in the carriage, didn’t he?” 

“I thought you said there were only five in attendance,” Ivar said. 

“Well, I didn’t count him, obviously, why would I?” Isabella raised an eyebrow. Charming. She noticed that Celestina had turned pale and was staring at the footman. Mrs. Carrisford looked just as horrified. 

“Mr. Lothbrok, you aren’t seriously suggesting—Dunston’s been with us for nearly fifteen years!” 

“I am suggesting nothing, madam,” Ivar assured her. “It is your son who is suggesting it.” If Celestina was pale, the footman was positively white. “Sir— madam—I must say—” 

“No!” Isabella yelped. She had no idea what an accused man’s rights were in 1892 England, but instinctively she didn’t want the man to incriminate himself by accident. “Don’t say anything!” Ivar's mouth twitched as if repressing a laugh, but Isabella dismissed this as unlikely. He regarded her only briefly before switching his attention to the footman. 

“The advice is correct, if a tad over-enthusiastic. Say nothing. You are in no danger here.” 

“What d’you mean, he’s in no danger? If you’re telling me he stole my painting and then Mrs. Mandeville’s jewelry—” 

“I am telling you no such thing. I do not believe he did.” Ivar turned to Miss Carrisford. “Why would Giles need to get on your father’s good side?” The girl blinked quickly. 

“I beg your pardon?” 

“You told Miss Lang that was the reason Giles was overly solicitous of your mother. Why?” 

“Goodness. You heard that?” She flushed slightly. “Well... because of Oxford. He got sent down. Father’s making him work in the City now because—” 

“Lucie!” 

“Oh, be still, Celestina. Everyone in town knows.” 

“I thank you, Miss Carrisford. Your honesty is refreshing.” Ivar glanced at Celestina. “You are protective of young Mr. Carrisford?” 

“Not—not particularly.” 

“Was it he you were hoping to see when you arrived here? I noticed you were looking for someone.” 

“I wasn’t!” Ivar swiftly changed direction. 

“Yet you, Giles, looked everywhere but at Miss Mandeville when you entered the room. I find that noteworthy.” 

“I don’t see why.” 

“A young man not sparing even a passing glance at someone with Miss Mandeville’s personal charm? Not impossible, to be sure, but unusual.” The detective moved closer, nostrils flaring. “What brand of cigarettes do you use?” Giles’s mouth opened and he stared at Ivar with utter disbelief. 

“What sort of question is that?” His father seemed just as confused. 

“What earthly difference does it make?” 

“Wild Woodbine, isn’t it? Your coat is covered in the scent.” Ivar smiled. “So was the box at the theater. Were you with the Mandevilles in their box at all?” 

“I—no. No, I wasn’t.” 

“It’s a very distinctive smell. I even smelled it on Miss Mandeville last night, on her gloved hand. As if you and she were holding hands at some point. Do you two have an understanding?” Isabella watched the drama unfold in awe, now remembering Ivar's bowing low over Celestina’s hand, kissing it. 

“Of course my daughter doesn’t have an understanding with that boy! How dare you make such a suggestion, Mr. Lothbrok!” 

“Why take offense, madam? The Carrisfords are a highly suitable family, are they not?” 

“Not the boy—not yet. I am sorry, Leticia, but...” Mrs. Mandeville shrugged helplessly. “He’s no money of his own. Mr. Carrisford cut him off when he was sent down from Oxford. I’d not let my Celestina marry a boy without a cent. She knows that! Perhaps in a few years, when he’s shown responsibility at a career, but certainly not before then.” 

“Oh, Mamma,” Celestina said softly. 

“I thought it might be something like that.” Ivar sighed and looked at Celestina and Giles. “Giles didn’t want to earn his living. He decided to take it, instead. Mrs. Mandeville, your necklace is somewhere in this house, probably in the young man’s room. It is a Sunday, and they could not have sold it yet.” 

“You—you dare to suggest that my son stole—” 

“He did, Mr. Carrisford—with Miss Mandeville’s assistance. I would guess that she removed the necklace, perhaps while adjusting her mother’s cape or some other distraction, and then passed it to him. I’ll wager he also took your painting this summer—though I fear it is long gone by now.” Giles’s jaw hardened. 

“Prove it, Lothbrok.” 

“If you wish to drag this out, certainly. All I need is your father’s permission to search.” Ivar's voice softened. “But look what you’re doing to Miss Mandeville. Look what you’ve already done to her—turned her into a thief because you’re too lazy to earn your own way.” Tears spilled from Celestina’s eyes and she sat down, sobbing. Ivar looked coldly at Giles. “Frankly, the worst of your offenses is your cowardly accusation of a loyal footman.” Everyone watched Giles, who seemed to be turning eight shades of red to match his hair. Then the grandfather clock in the corner tolled the hour—five—and the interruption broke the spell. Giles dashed out of the room, fleeing without a word. As his parents shouted his name, Ivar took a frustrated glance at the clock before following in pursuit. Isabella was the first to reach the door that Giles had flung open and Ivar hadn’t bothered closing as he gave chase. Isabella and the rest stared down the street. Giles had all the speed of youth, but Ivar had something beyond speed—ferocity and determination. 

They raced along Charles Street, Giles shoving people aside, Ivar slipping between them as if having calculated in advance every one of Giles’s movements. It wasn’t even close to a fair chase. Soon Ivar was on Giles, grabbing at his shoulder. But the young man had no intention of returning quietly. He swung a fist out at Ivar. The older man’s snarl was visible even from this distance, and he smacked Giles’s arm away to deflect the blow. When Giles tried again, Ivar seemed to lose his temper; this time, instead of deflecting, he slapped the young man’s face with the back of his hand. Giles kicked out and Ivar aimed a punch at his gut—followed swiftly by another—and soon Giles was bent over, gagging, all fight drained from him. By now Isabella, Alicia, Mr. Carrisford and Celestina had caught up with the battling men. Ivar was supporting Giles, but he himself seemed to need some support as well. His light brown hair was disheveled, and his perspiring face was a strange mottled color. Isabella didn’t remember seeing any of Giles’s attacks connect with Ivar's face, but perhaps he’d landed a blow without her realizing it. 

“Giles!” Celestina cried out, racing to him. “What have you done to him?” 

“He’ll be fine,” Ivar snapped. “He needs air. Carrisford, take him.” Mr. Carrisford was uncharacteristically silent, probably embarrassed by his son’s behavior. “I said take him!” Ivar ordered again, his voice hoarse. Then, looking beyond Isabella, he seemed to relax a bit. “Pargeter. You certainly took your time.” Isabella spun around to find Hollis Pargeter hurrying up to Ivar. 

“Sorry, Lothbrok. Only got your note an hour ago. Is this the fellow?” 

“Yes. Take him, will you?” Isabella was astonished. Ivar must have known he’d apprehend the thief even before they’d left for the Carrisfords’. Hollis took hold of the limp young man and flung one of Giles’s arms over his shoulder. 

“How certain are you—” 

“The others will explain. I haven’t time for an interrogation, Pargeter. I have an appointment I must keep.” Isabella reached out to Ivar's sleeve, concerned. 

“Are you hurt? Let me see—” He yanked his arm out of reach. 

“No! No, I—I thank you for your assistance, Miss Lang. And... I apologize. I must leave you and Alicia to make your way home. Take my carriage.” 

“But aren’t you coming back to speak to Mrs. Mandeville? You’ve told her that her daughter stole her necklace. She must be devastated! Don’t you think you should—” 

“I am well aware of this, but I cannot spend time that I do not have. I apologize,” he repeated, not meeting her gaze. He turned and, almost before Isabella had drawn another breath, disappeared into the fading afternoon.


	6. Chapter 6

After an evening explaining to and consoling Mrs. Mandeville, Isabella spent the night dreaming of Ivar. Throughout the turmoil in her mind, he kept changing his appearance: from the sophisticated, pristinely attired man in complete control of every word, every gesture, to the angry, disheveled man fighting with Giles. Both sides of him aroused her desire, and in her sleep fantasies she was consumed with such a restless, dizzying pleasure that she woke up breathless more than once. But it wasn’t one of these erotic dreams that woke her in the morning, nor even the sunlight poking through the parted curtains, it was the sound of someone pounding on her bedroom door. Isabella rose from her bed and staggered to her feet just as she heard Nettie’s voice. 

“Miss! Are you in there? Oh miss, open up! Please!” Isabella grabbed her borrowed dressing gown and flung it on before unlatching the door to find Nettie. The girl stared at her with distress mingled with relief, then grabbed Isabella's shoulders and drew her into an embrace. “You’re all right! You’re here!” 

“Of course I am,” Isabella assured her with a voice still hoarse from sleep. “What’s the matter? What time is it?” While the other woman pushed her way inside, Isabella could hear voices from downstairs, both male and female, and what sounded like dozens of footsteps tramping along the corridors of the lower floors. Alarmed, she turned back to Nettie and shut the door. Nettie was pacing and looking around the room as if imitating Ivar on the search for clues. Her eyes were wild and reddened, and Isabella could tell she’d been crying. 

“Nettie,” Isabella demanded, standing in front of her to force Nettie to stop and pay attention. “You’re frightening me. What’s going on?” Nettie looked at her with dread. 

“He’s done it again. The Beast’s struck again!” The blood immediately drained from Isabella's face and her knees felt weak. She was back to reality now, the pleasant memories of the investigation with Ivar the furthest thing from her mind. 

“Not... another murder?” Nettie nodded miserably. 

“In an alley, just a few houses down from here. A girl like us. Like you. New to town, she was. Now Ruby’s gone. Torn to shreds.” Isabella stepped backwards and found the edge of her bed, sitting down as her mind raced. Her journey to the past had placed her in the middle of a horrifying situation—a world filled not only with gala operas, jewel heists and hobnobbing with the wealthy, but also with ugly, gruesome crimes. She swallowed and looked up at Nettie. 

“Did you know her well?” 

“To speak to. To say good morning to. This time he didn’t get one of my friends. Not this time. But someone’ll be next, I know it.” Nettie clasped her hands and held them prayerfully in front of her chin. “I thought maybe he got you, too,” she whispered. “You was away all day yesterday....” 

“But I’m fine, you see that now, don’t you? I’m all right,” Isabella said soothingly, and found the strength to rise again and console the shivering girl. “The police will find out who’s doing this. And if not them...” She wondered if Ivar had begun to investigate the murders. It seemed strange to think that he wouldn’t have been brought in—that the police, as proprietary about their cases as they might be, wouldn’t want any assistance to solve such a series of brutal crimes—especially from the most renowned detective in London. 

“I should see Alicia,” Isabella murmured to herself, realizing that the proprietress might be able to help her get in touch with Ivar. Nettie pulled away stiffly. 

“What for? She’s the one responsible for this.” 

“What? What do you mean?” 

“The girl, the one who was murdered by him—” Nettie was cut off by another knock on Isabella's door, this one firm and brusque. 

“Miss Lang,” a familiar voice came. “It’s Inspector Pargeter. Please open up.” As Nettie’s mouth remained open in surprise, Isabella went to let the policeman in. Hollis looked grave, his broad, red face wearing an expression vastly different from his usual cheerful, kind look. He nodded somberly at both women, though most of his attention was focused on Isabella. “I beg your pardon for the intrusion so early, Miss Lang. I know you’re not quite ready to receive callers,” he added with a tactful gesture toward her bedclothes, “but things are urgent—” 

“Oh, I’m dressed enough. What happened?” 

“I expect you’ve heard the news.” 

“Yes, we have. I’m so glad to see you, just knowing there are police here...” Isabella suddenly frowned. “But why are you all here? Nettie said the murder occurred down the block.” 

“She didn’t tell you, then? The victim lived here, at Thomas Lodgings.” 

“I was tryin’ to tell you,” Nettie said softly. She’d backed away, near the corner, ever since Hollis had entered the room. But now she took a tentative step forward. “Ruby came here a few days before you did. Thomas welcomed her here, and now she’s become a victim...” 

“A victim of the Gresse Street Beast.” Isabella said the words as if hypnotized. She realized now that none of this was a coincidence: reading Gresse Street Secrets, her arrival here, at this very time and place... This was why she’d been sent here. To uncover the truth. Or be destroyed by it. 

“Living here just two days and already you know the rumors,” Hollis said, raising an eyebrow and aiming a brief disapproving look at Nettie. “You mustn’t pay attention to everything you hear, Miss Lang. There’s a lot of gossip that isn’t—” 

“The Ripper!” Isabella said suddenly, remembering the idea she’d had when first learning of the crimes. Hollis blinked at her in surprise. 

“Pardon?” 

“Was the victim’s throat slashed? Her organs removed?” His blue eyes wide, Hollis’s mouth parted silently before he responded. “That is correct. But how on earth...” He dismissed his obvious astonishment with a brisk shake of his head. “I must insist you tell me how you know this, Miss Lang.” 

“Just guessing. That’s how Jack the Ripper murdered his victims, isn’t it?” Hollis’s lips tightened and he didn’t reply, but he might as well have. Soon there was a commotion on the stairwell and the sound of someone running down the hall. And then, to Isabella's surprise, Ivar stepped into the doorway. It wasn’t just his arrival that caught her off guard. His appearance was in even worse disarray than after his fight with Giles yesterday—from his rumpled silk shirt and poorly combed straight, shoulder-length hair to the wildness of his gaze as he searched past Hollis to find Isabella at last. 

“Miss Lang,” he breathed, his voice raspy. He clutched at the door jamb with one hand, as if needing the support. “You are safe.” Isabella nodded weakly. The intensity in his stare nearly gave her vertigo. The others might as well not have been in the room. “I thought—I’d heard there’d been another victim, a newcomer to Thomas Lodgings, and I thought—” 

“I know.” Alicia came up behind him, looking worriedly at Isabella before sending a furious brown-eyed glare to Ivar. 

“I told you she was perfectly well and safe in her room. This is completely untoward, you gentlemen tramping up here through my house, with all these ladies….” After looking at Isabella for a frozen moment, Ivar seemed to get hold of himself. He rubbed a hand across his mouth and straightened; only then did he apparently notice the other woman in the room. 

“I beg your pardon,” he said, looking alarmed—or possibly embarrassed at his open display of emotion. Isabella could see his old self returning to him, the reserve that was his usual demeanor. “I should not have barged in unannounced.” Hollis lifted a gentlemanly hand to Nettie. 

“Miss Ashdown. Perhaps you’d speak to one of my men downstairs? Anything you can tell us about the victim would be of great help.” Only now able to look away from Ivar, Isabella realized how pale Nettie was. Ivar's arrival had clearly left her speechless. It had done the same to Isabella, so she could hardly blame the other girl’s reaction. 

“Yes sir,” Nettie whispered eventually, one shy hand automatically lifting to brush some strands of hair over the scarred side of her face. “’scuse me, miss.” 

“Isabella,” Isabella corrected gently with a squeeze of Nettie’s hand as the girl passed by. Ivar backed well away from Nettie, seemingly aware of her shyness, and gave her plenty of room to leave. Nettie didn’t look at him, and his own gaze was again riveted to Isabella's. 

“I am very glad you’re unhurt,” he said at last, back to his composed, collected manner. “And that you got back safely from Mayfair. I must again apologize for leaving you so abruptly.” 

“There’s no need to apologize, Mr. Lothbrok. We had no trouble getting back home. I’ve taken cabs by myself plenty of times.” 

“But you are new here. And last night...” Ivar seemed unable to complete the thought. Hollis harrumphed and said dryly, “Yes, well, now that we’ve established your status to my friend’s satisfaction, Miss Lang, perhaps you’d be so good as to tell me how you knew about the victim’s unfortunate state?” 

“What do you mean?” Ivar asked, finally turning his attention from Isabella to Hollis. “What precisely did she know?” 

“That the young woman had been slashed, violently slashed across her face and throat, and her internal organs removed.” Hollis’s recital seemed cold and harsh, but then, with such facts, how could it be otherwise? Alicia, still hovering in the hallway, looked ill. Ivar's only external reactions were his Adam’s apple moving as he swallowed and a muscle throbbing in his temple. 

“I see,” he said quietly, and then returned to look at Isabella. “You knew this?” 

“As I told Inspector Pargeter, it was only a suspicion. I was just thinking that this might be related to Jack the Ripper, and I know that’s how his victims were killed.” Alicia grimaced. 

“Good lord, Isabella, why in heaven’s name would you know such a thing?” 

“Why wouldn’t I? It’s the biggest criminal case of the century!” Hollis sighed. 

“The Ripper case, so-called, is no longer active.” 

“But not because it was solved! It’s never been solved, not even—” Isabella cut herself off, nearly having blurted out “not even in the twenty-first century!” She bit her lip in frustration at being unable to explain how much she really knew. “But I admit that these girls don’t exactly fit the Ripper’s modus operandi.” The men and Alicia all stared at Isabella—Hollis with disbelief, Alicia with confusion, and Ivar with what Isabella now recognized as his puzzle-calculating look. Will you listen to yourself? People of this era don’t talk like the cops on Law & Order and CSI! “I just mean,” she said more quietly, “the Ripper murdered women in a different part of London. And he killed prostitutes, which these girls…weren’t. As far as I know.” Ivar nodded thoughtfully. 

“You certainly are well-versed on the Whitechapel murders, Miss Lang.” 

“I told you I like research, Mr. Lothbrok.” 

“But on such a morbid subject!” Hollis seemed pained. “Not fit for ladies.” 

“Oh, that’s ridiculous,” Isabella said. “We’re the ones being targeted. Maybe if you let us get involved, we’d be less likely to be victimized—the public would be better on its guard, and maybe women could learn how to defend themselves. Fight back, if at all possible.” 

“Fight back? A young lady against a savage killer?” 

“Inspector, if you think men are the only ones who have strength enough to protect themselves, you’re very much mistaken. If this killer ever came near me, I’d put up a struggle before I went, I can assure you of that!” 

“You wouldn’t stand a chance,” Ivar said harshly. “Do not be foolish, Miss Lang. I hope you have no silly notions that you could protect yourself. The best way to remain safe is to stay far away.” He glanced around the room with sudden anger. “You should not even be here. You should leave this place.” 

“Excuse me, Ivar, but Isabella is perfectly safe in my house!” 

“Clearly she is not,” he snapped. “Forgive me, Alicia, but no fewer than four of the women attacked have ties to this house. Something draws him here. Whether it’s ease of access, closeness to his home, or some other connection we cannot guess.” He darted his gaze back to Isabella and took a step closer, reaching for her. “You must leave, I beg you.” Suddenly the air in the room was halved—or so it seemed to Isabella. His presence only inches away, his hands holding her elbows lightly... it was all she could do not to fall into his embrace. She’d never experienced anything like this; he was a flame, she a moth wanting to move ever closer to the burning light in his eyes. 

“I have nowhere else to go,” she whispered. “I have no home, no money....” 

“We’ll find you somewhere safe.” He lifted a hand and touched a lock of her hair. “Somewhere you’ll not be harmed.” She took a deep breath and something—the part of her that was bold, reckless, just as he thought her—pushed the question from her lips: “Let me stay with you.” Ivar's fingers reflexively tightened around her arm, and his right hand froze where it had been absently caressing her hair. A flicker of desire in his blue eyes seemed to brighten them, and Isabella was suddenly certain he would agree to her admittedly scandalous suggestion. But a second later the flicker was extinguished. His expression turned to stone and his hands dropped to his side. 

“No.” Isabella felt she’d been slapped. Her face radiated heat from shame at his rejection and her own inappropriateness, stupidity, and apparent misunderstanding of his feelings for her. 

“I’m sorry,” she managed at last, her words as icy as her cheeks were afire. “I shouldn’t have asked.” 

“Indeed you should not.” From somewhere Alicia appeared at Isabella's side, sending a withering glance to Ivar before putting a protective arm across Isabella's shoulders. Isabella was too embarrassed to tolerate the sympathy. 

“Very well then,” she said. “I’ll stay here. If I may, that is, Alicia?” 

“Of course, my dear.” With a brusque shake of his head, Ivar stepped back. 

“Unwise. You are new, you do not know this city... you’re painting a target on yourself.” 

“I’ll be fine, Mr. Lothbrok. I’m an adult and I can certainly take care of myself.” Her tone turned to acid as she flung his words back at him: “Kindly trust that before I met you, I was quite successful and managed to stay alive on my own.” His lips tightened. 

“May I speak with you in private?” 

“There’s no need. I’ve made up my mind. I was wrong to ask, I know that, especially as I’ll be fine where I am.” 

“Miss Lang...” He again moved closer, his eyes beseeching her. “Do not be so foolhardy, not out of spite.” 

“It’s not spite,” she snapped, refusing to get caught up in his magnetic stare again. “I told you, I can protect myself—even from the Beast!” The word had an astonishing effect on him. He turned ashen and went so still he might have been carved from marble. 

“What do you mean,” he said, not even a question. Then his hand shot out to grip her elbow again, this time tightly, and pulled her to him. “What do you mean beast?” Both Alicia and Hollis called his name but Isabella was lost in his presence, in his incendiary stare, and barely heard them. This time she recovered herself and jerked out of his grasp. 

“Let go of me!” 

“What do you know about the murderer? Tell me!” 

“I’ve told Inspector Pargeter here what I know. I don’t owe you any explanations.” 

“You don’t understand what you’re fooling with. Promise me you’ll leave this house!” 

“Stop treating me like a child.” She clutched her dressing gown more tightly around her throat, suddenly feeling naked in front of him. “And leave my room, please!” He just stood there, examining her with anger blazing in his eyes, and Isabella couldn’t take it any longer. She turned to Alicia and asked her friend to accompany her to another room. Alicia said, “Of course,” and the two women left the men behind. With every step she took, Isabella felt more and more like a train that had leapt the track. And it was partly her own fault, though she couldn’t understand where things had gone so horribly wrong. What had she done to upset him so?


	7. Chapter 7

Isabella scanned the shelves of the dusty second-hand curio store, searching for her missing book. This had become her ritual, scouring any destination where someone might have sold Gresse Street Secrets, even though it was becoming increasingly likely that it was lost forever. It was November, a month since she’d been sent back in time. This was definitely no dream, and as unbelievable as her situation was, it might very well be permanent. 

As the days passed, and then weeks, Isabella grew more accustomed to her surroundings, the people, and the lack of modern conveniences she’d always taken for granted. Hair dryers, coffee makers, refrigerators, central heating, the internet, television, cars... they were things of the past for her. Or, more accurately, the future. More than any technology, she missed her friends, family and Sadie desperately. Still, day by day, she’d grown closer to Alicia, Nettie, and even Hollis, who was a regular fixture at Thomas Lodgings thanks to the ongoing investigation into the murders. And then there was Ivar. He still remained distant, even when they were in close quarters. They’d rarely been alone, but had shared many stolen glances in group settings. Through many conversations at dinner parties and other social events, Isabella knew they had much in common: love of literature, music, history, mystery. He had a dry sense of humor and an incisive wit, and the hours spent in his company seemed to fly by. But she wanted more. Much more. And he would not allow it. 

She knew he had feelings for her. It was in the way he spoke to her, his voice low and restrained yet every now and then catching in his throat, as if emotion too dangerous to unleash was percolating within. It was in the way he looked at her when she pretended not to notice him, his blue gaze steady and penetrating until she returned the stare—after which he’d blink and turn away. It was in the way his hand sometimes grazed against hers when they spoke, to emphasize a point, perhaps, but always lingering a moment longer than strictly necessary. His interactions with her were always restrained, always polite, but always had an undercurrent of intense desire and need that he apparently thought he could not act upon. She couldn’t understand it. It was as if he thought her a porcelain doll who might break at any moment, someone his touch might shatter. Frankly, she wished she could grab one of the books from the store and smack his chauvinistic 1892 sensibilities upside the head. 

“Sorry, miss,” the shop owner said, interrupting her reverie. “I checked in our logs and it was as I thought: no book such as you describe came in last month. Can I interest you in anything else?” Isabella shook her head. 

She’d been earning a few shillings a week at the Bilbrew Book Shop, but her income allowed her to pay Alicia for her room and board and little else. Whatever she could save was earmarked for clothing. She didn’t want to continue to borrow Alicia's things, which didn’t fit her perfectly. A new wardrobe was a must. Of course, what she really wanted was a good pair of jeans and sneakers, not to mention underwear that hadn’t been designed by the Marquis de Sade. Maybe I should just ‘invent’ a normal bra myself. I’d earn millions! Shrugging her shoulders in hopes of finding a more comfortable position in her corset, Isabella left the store and walked back down Stephen Street in the direction of the boarding house. As she headed home in the twilight, she noticed that the other women walking alone like her were all moving very quickly, their eyes shifting nervously from side to side. Though it had been a month since Ruby’s brutal death, the atmosphere on these small streets was one of tense suspicion—and anticipation. The people seemed to be holding their collective breath: when would the killer strike next? 

Isabella wasn’t immune to the anxiety, especially at night. Her pace increased until by the time she reached Thomas Lodgings she was nearly jogging. She’d just entered the door when Nettie grabbed her arm and pulled her to the side. 

“Where’ve you been?” Nettie asked in a growl. “It’s past seven!” 

“I wasn’t aware you were my keeper.” Isabella tried to keep her voice light but couldn’t hide her irritation as she removed her cloak. As fond as she’d grown of the girl, Nettie’s tendency to erupt in hysterics had worn her patience over the past few weeks. “I did some window shopping after work, that’s all. What’s wrong?” 

“You risking your life, that’s what. Going out at night, ’specially these days.” Nettie shook her head furiously. “I don’t like it. An’ all that time you spend with him.” Slowly untying the hat ribbon beneath her chin, Isabella cast a sidelong glance at Nettie. There was no denying the girl’s crush on Ivar was just as strong as ever, though she’d never admitted it. She acted fiercely jealous of Isabella's relationship with the detective, tracking every moment Isabella spent in his presence. 

“Nettie,” Isabella said softly, “Mr. Lothbrok and I... we’re just friends.” 

“You shouldn’t be. It’s not proper. It’s not right.” Her hackles raised, Isabella pulled the hat off her head. 

“That isn’t for you to judge.” She started to stomp upstairs, but Nettie clutched her arm again. 

“I’m warnin’ you. Bein’ with him... you’ll regret it!” Isabella stared at her. 

“That almost sounds like a threat.” 

“It’s not a threat! You don’t understand, I know him better than you! He don’t want you, not the way you—” 

“Leave me alone, Nettie. This is none of your business!” 

“Get out of here!” The shout didn’t come from either Isabella or Nettie—it was Alicia's voice, coming from somewhere outside the house. Isabella shared an alarmed glance with Nettie, and then they both rushed through the front door. They found Alicia around the back, struggling with a man Isabella had never seen before. Alicia was apparently trying to prevent him from getting inside the doorway that led to the kitchen area; in that doorway stood Dot, the maid, clutching her hands. “You’re not to see her again!” Alicia yelled, trying to push the clearly drunk man off the steps. “Get away or I’ll call for a constable!” 

“You ain’t gonna keep me from my girl!” the drunk slurred, pawing at Alicia to shove her aside. “Tell her, Dot. Tell her you’re my girl.” The maid shook her head. 

“Don’t cause trouble, Jasper, you’ll lose me my post!” When Jasper grabbed at Alicia's shoulders and nearly made her collapse under his weight, Isabella jumped into the fray. Rushing up the stairs, she tugged at the man’s left arm. A loud grunt of outrage accompanied his attempt to brush her away, and only Isabella's quick reflexes enabled her to duck his flailing elbow before it jabbed her in the ribs. At last, with effort, she pulled him backwards off her friend. He stumbled and fell to the pavement. Dot squealed in horror and raced to his side, ignoring Alicia and Isabella. “Jasper! You alright?” Alicia rubbed her arm and glared at her maid. 

“Help me get her inside,” she muttered to Isabella. Isabella turned to look for Nettie, hoping for some assistance, but Nettie had disappeared. It took a while but finally Alicia and Isabella drew Dot back into the kitchen. Alicia slammed and bolted the door, leaving Jasper outside to bang on the door in a rage. The warm kitchen was a welcome change from the dark alleyway outside. Alicia turned to Isabella. “Did he hurt you?” 

“Not at all. What about you?” Alicia shook her head. “He shook me up a bit, that is all. I’ve handled many a lout in my day. Many of my lodgers have escaped from just such unfortunate connections—who then turn up on my doorstep.” She cast a disapproving eye at Dot. “I didn’t expect the same from my help. You’ve been here only a few months and I’ve already had to fend him off twice.” 

“Oh miss, I’m ever so sorry,” Dot said, stricken. “Please forgive ’im.” 

“I’ll not forgive him, nor should you.” 

“What is his problem?” Isabella asked. 

“Jasper don’t want me workin’. ’E wants me with ’im. I told ’im we can’t marry till I get some money put aside, but ’e thinks I’m just tryin’ to get above meself.” 

“He thinks she’s putting on airs.” Alicia turned back to Dot. “I’ve told you time and time again, someone that possessive is a danger to you.” 

“But ’e can be so lovely. You don’t know ’im. It’s just when ’e’s ’ad a nip of the drink, ’e gets a bit wild.” 

“A ‘nip’ is one thing, Dot. He clearly had much more than a nip.” Dot nodded but didn’t seem convinced. Again she begged Alicia's forgiveness and then went off to bed. Isabella shook her head in concern but the sober moment was broken by Alicia's sudden wry laugh. “Never a dull moment,” she said, rubbing her sore arm again. “Now I think I need a bit of a nip myself!” Isabella laughed. 

“I think I’ll join you.” The two went into the parlor, where Alicia retrieved a bottle of sherry from the sideboard. She poured them each a glass, and then the two sank down onto the mauve settee. Hours passed and the amount of sherry in the bottle grew lower. Conversation flowed loosely between them and soon Isabella was comfortable enough not to hold back when the topic turned to Ivar. 

“You feel warmly about him, that much is clear,” Alicia said, touching Isabella's hand. “Do you know if he returns your affection?” 

“I’m pretty sure he does. But he’s so... guarded. So careful. He doesn’t seem willing to—to court me,” Isabella said, trying to use an era-appropriate term. “I don’t know why. Perhaps I’m off-putting, too modern.” 

“Surely not. Ivar is a man of action and has little patience for shrinking violets. I rather think he likes your impetuosity. In confidence, Isabella, I admit he’s told me that you intrigue him.” Alicia smiled. “That’s as high a compliment as he’s ever given.” 

“You hold him in pretty high esteem as well. Have you and he ever... had a connection?” 

“We are but friends, and I have never even had the hint that he might feel otherwise, for me or any woman, until now. He is famously reserved with women—though this is only a late development.” 

“What do you mean? He used to be different?” 

“Indeed he was. Several years ago, his name would often be linked to that of some woman or another. But since I’ve known him—three years, now—I’ve never heard of any such connection, except in idle gossip.” Isabella frowned, a finger tracing the rim of her sherry glass. 

“I wonder what changed. Maybe someone broke his heart. It’s easy to get frightened off from a bad experience. Maybe he’s afraid to get too close—” A loud scream shattered the quiet evening. Both women froze for an agonized second and then they leapt up almost simultaneously, racing out of the parlor and down the hall. The screaming was coming from outside the house. Isabella was first down the steps to the pavement, where she looked around wildly. Faces peeked out from windows all along the block. Then a figure staggered from behind the house. It was Nettie, her gloved hands outstretched to Isabella and Alicia, her face nearly white in the bright light of the moon. 

“It’s happened,” she said almost inaudibly. “It’s happened again.” The girl was tottering on her feet and seemed about to collapse. When Isabella rushed to help, she realized in horror that Nettie’s hands weren’t wearing gloves at all. They were dark and dripping with blood. 

“Oh my God,” Isabella cried, clasping Nettie’s shoulders. “What happened? Where are you hurt?” Nettie shook her head, dazed. 

“It’s not me, it’s Dot. He’s torn her throat out. He’s killed her. He’s killed poor Dot.” Isabella turned in the direction of the alley at the side of the house, where she saw what looked like a heap of clothing. She wouldn’t look more closely. She couldn’t. But she knew it was Dot, the maid who’d been so helpful over the past month. And so it had begun anew. All the dread of the past month had reached its fruition tonight: the Gresse Street Beast had struck again. 

The police arrived and began questioning everyone. Isabella and Alicia told them about the incident earlier in the evening between Dot and Jasper, but they didn’t seem convinced that it was anything but the serial killer who’d been stalking the women of the district. Isabella had finished being interrogated for a second time and was walking back to check on Nettie—who’d been hysterical and required a doctor’s care—when she realized she hadn’t seen Alicia in nearly an hour. Concern made her change direction and she looked all over the house. Then, poking her head in the parlor, she heard Alicia's voice through the window. 

“And you’ll give this directly to him, won’t you? You’ll not stop for anything?” 

“I said I wouldn’t an’ I won’t! Cor, you think I want you angry wif me? Or ’im, worst of all?” 

Isabella recognized the second voice at once: young Mouse, the paperboy. She’d spoken to him nearly every day, and had even bought him meals once or twice at a sandwich stall. Curious, she parted the lace curtain with one hand and peeked outside. The moonlight streaming from above illuminated Alicia's athletic figure as she handed Mouse an envelope and gave the boy a coin. 

“If I hear from him that you’ve delivered this safely, I’ll give you another shilling.” Mouse nodded and then took off. Isabella hesitated only an instant before spinning around and hurrying to the front door, where she pushed her way past the policemen to catch up with the boy as he rounded the corner of the building. 

“Mouse! Please wait!” He scowled and hid the envelope clutched in his hand. 

“Can’t, miss. Gotta ’urry!” 

“Who did Alicia give you that letter for?”

“That’s private, miss. She doesn’t want you to know!” Astonished, Isabella grabbed Mouse’s arm before he could leave. 

“Me, specifically? She said that?” 

“Yeah, that’s what she said, now lemme go!” Releasing him, Isabella stared after the boy, who scampered off down the street, cutting through the alleyways in no apparent fear for his life. She stood in worried silence for a moment and then whirled around to find her friend. Alicia was back in the parlor, talking to a constable. When the policeman left, Isabella moved toward the other woman. 

“This is dreadful, just dreadful.” Alicia's face was a mask of exhaustion as she sank into a wing chair by the fireplace. 

“I know. Did she have any family?” 

“None that I know of. I suppose Jasper would know, but he... he might be the one who did it.” Isabella swallowed. 

“I saw you speaking to Mouse just now. Giving him a note for somebody. What was that about?” The sudden guilt in Alicia's brown eyes was obvious. She lifted a hand to rub her temples, and possibly hide her emotions from Isabella. 

“Nothing, Isabella.” Isabella shook her head slowly. 

“I don’t think that’s true. I think it was about me.” 

“How could you—” Her friend stiffened. 

“That boy. He told you.” 

“He told me nothing about the note.” Which was true enough, at least. Isabella moved closer, forcing Alicia to look at her. “But now I know I was right. Tell me, Alicia. Please!” 

“Very well. It was a note to Ivar. He would want to know what happened tonight as soon as possible.” 

“Understandable. But what’s that got to do with me?” 

“He asked me to let him know of anything that might affect your safety. Any changes in your schedule or your daily routine. He seems to think you might be a particular target.” 

“Oh. He does.” Isabella was both flattered and annoyed that Ivar was keeping tabs on her. He wouldn’t admit his feelings, he wouldn’t allow her to express her own, but checking up on her comings and goings was apparently acceptable. Well, not to her. She turned on her heel and marched down the corridor, with Alicia rushing right behind her. 

“Isabella, where are you going?” 

“To have a talk with Mr. Lothbrok.” Isabella grabbed her cloak from where she’d left it earlier and wrapped it around her shoulders in one swift motion. 

“Are you mad? Tonight, of all nights? Going out on your own—” 

“I’m definitely mad, but not in the way you think.” She pulled open the door. “Besides, the killer’s never struck twice in an evening.” 

“Isabella, I beg of you—” 

“I’ll be fine! Bedford Square is only a few blocks from here.” 

The police were gone now, as were the onlookers who’d been staring at the gruesome sight of the latest victim. Isabella marched briskly, as she might have done back home, making no effort to act the dainty Victorian woman. Her heart was pounding and she let her arms swing back and forth as she walked, glad of the exercise and the effect it had on releasing her frustration. The streets were lonely but brightly lit by the moon, and Isabella felt safer once she was off Gresse Street at last. She’d nearly reached the end of Stephen Street when a movement to her left made her heart leap into her throat. There was no time to react before a hand clamped over her mouth and another arm slipped round her waist, restraining her. 

“Don’t say nothin’,” a harsh whisper said in her ear. “I ain’t gonna harm you.” Isabella jammed her elbow into her captor’s chest, forcing him to release his grip. She started to run forward but he reached out again, grabbing hold of her dress. She spun around and kicked him brutally in the shin, but despite his groan of pain, this time he didn’t let go. 

“Jasper!” she spat, recognizing Dot’s boyfriend at once. “Let go of me!” 

“I saw you leave the lodgings. I know what you said to the police. You need to tell ’em you was wrong about me, you need to tell ’em—” 

“Why were you still at the lodgings?” Isabella was seized by terror. “Oh my God. Jasper, did you do it? Did you kill her?” Jasper grabbed hold of her arms, shaking her. 

“No! So ’elp me I didn’t! I couldn’t! I’d never ’urt my Dottie.” His eyes were wild and glassy. She could smell the liquor on his breath and saw the tears streaming down his face.   
“Then why were you still around? Why didn’t you leave?” 

“I wish I’d taken ’er from that bleedin’ place. Then she’d be alive. She’d be with me.” His hands clutched at her, digging into her flesh, and he pushed her into an alley between two townhouses. Her back met with the wall as he shoved her against it. 

“It’s your fault. You an’ that Thomas woman. You wouldn’t let Dot be with me. It’s your fault! Make it right an’ tell the police I didn’t do nothing!” She struggled desperately to get free but his grip was like iron despite his drunken state. He seemed insane with grief—or guilt— and Isabella couldn’t get enough room to kick out at him. Then he snarled and made a strange sound: a groan, or maybe a growl. But when he turned around and a shaft of moonlight struck his face, she realized the noise wasn’t coming from him. His eyes were wide and his mouth gaped open. 

“What—what the ’ell—” 

Isabella followed the direction of his stare, which was aimed down the alley. At first all she saw was a shadow against the brick wall, something moving faster than any human. Both she and Jasper were breathing heavily, but even their gasps couldn’t cover the sound of the massive, panting thing barreling toward them. It leapt over a stairwell and for an instant Isabella saw a glowing pair of amber eyes—unblinking, hypnotic and terrifying. When it landed and was bathed in the light of the moon, Isabella saw its fur outlined in a blue-white halo around its muscular body; she saw its mouth open and its razor-sharp teeth gleam. And only then did she realize that the huge creature headed straight for them was a wolf.


	8. Chapter 8

Isabella and Jasper went still with terror as the slavering animal sped down the darkened alley toward them. Isabella recovered first and demanded in a fierce whisper, “Jasper, let me go! We have to run!” The drunken man came back to life but displayed his cowardice at once: he grabbed Isabella, swung her in front of him, and shoved her to the ground. Her head clunked against a loose stone, hard enough to stun her for a few seconds as Jasper lumbered heavily away in the opposite direction—leaving Isabella behind. When she regained enough sense to look up, the animal was nearly upon her. She heard its growl and saw its breath escaping into the air. 

Crawling backwards, fingers grasping the slippery stones, she pressed her body flat against the wall of the building behind her in what she knew was a hopeless effort to escape detection. The wolf’s muscles rippled beneath its coat as it gathered itself and sprang—but not at Isabella. Its body sailed neatly over her, so closely she could feel the breeze as it passed, and landed yards away to continue racing down the alley in pursuit of Jasper. Isabella's heartbeat hammered in her ears and she remained in place, gasping for air, still dizzy from the blow on her head and everything she’d experienced tonight. At last her muscles were free from their paralysis and she had enough wit to realize that the animal might come back. She got to her feet and stumbled forward, no longer sure of exactly where she was or what direction to take. 

“Miss Lang!” Her name echoed down the street ahead. She froze for a moment, unaccountably afraid, but then the voice came again and she recognized the man calling her: Hollis Pargeter. Relief flooded through her. 

“Hollis!” She staggered out of the alley, looking wildly around until she spotted the police detective’s tall, broad frame. “Here! I’m here!” He turned and immediately rushed to her, his footsteps heavy against the cobblestones. When he reached her and grabbed her arms, she was so glad to see a blessedly friendly, familiar face that she sobbed and fell against him. 

“There now, Miss Lang, you’re safe,” he said, sounding a little embarrassed. “Are you alright?” 

“Yes. Just had the daylights scared out of me.” She caught her breath, clutching his lapels for support. “You have no idea how happy I am to see you. What are you doing here?” 

“I’d been informed of the latest murder and went to the Lodgings. Miss Thomas told me you’d left on your own and she begged me to find you. Good God, Miss Lang, what were you thinking?” 

“I wasn’t thinking. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to think straight again,” she said with a weak laugh, but sobered up at once as she looked up at him. “Hollis, there was—there’s a wolf. A huge wolf, chasing us, I mean me and Jasper—oh God, Jasper! Dot’s fiancé, Alicia must have told you about him. He attacked me, I thought he was going to kill me, but then the wolf came and he knocked me down, I hit my head—” 

“Please calm yourself, Miss Lang! You’re not well.” Hollis’s grave concern for her was etched on his handsome face. “This, er, wolf knocked you down?” 

“No. Jasper did.” She hastily filled him in on everything Jasper had said and done, concluding with, “But he ran away when the wolf showed up. Did you see it? Did you see the wolf?” 

“No, I saw nothing. Certainly not a wolf.” His hand tentatively brushed her face. “You seem overheated, possibly feverish. Are you—” 

“I don’t have a fever and I’m not crazy! I saw it, Hollis!” 

“Of course,” he said carefully, and pulled back to take a closer look at her. “But you said you hit your head. We must get you seen to by a doctor.” 

“I’ll be fine, if you’d just listen to me! We have to—” 

“Miss Lang, you are in hysterics. If you saw anything, it must have been a stray dog. There are hundreds of them throughout the city. I shall have a dog-catcher make the rounds in the morning. Now I must get you somewhere safe—this Jasper is a menace and must be caught.” Isabella couldn’t argue with his last point, and as Hollis led her down the street and her terror subsided, her rational mind admitted that he must also have been correct about the dog. This was a London street, not a forest in the wild. There were no wolves here outside of a zoo. 

“We’re close to Lothbrok's,” Hollis continued, frowning back down the street. “I’m sure he’ll not mind harboring you temporarily when he hears what happened. And he certainly knows a good doctor who’ll put you right.” She didn’t object, especially since Ivar's home had been her destination in the first place. Her body was so weak with exhaustion that Hollis had to support her with one arm wrapped around her waist, another gently holding her shoulders. 

They crossed the busy Tottenham Court Road and soon Isabella saw what looked like a fantasy version of Victorian London—a street with stately Georgian homes, each one more elegant than the next. Reaching their destination, Hollis rapped on the door a few times with no reply, and finally made a little irritated noise before reaching over to press a small, nearly invisible stone in the wall. 

“What are you doing?” Isabella asked. Her answer came when the stone dislodged itself to reveal a tiny niche, out of which Hollis scooped a brass key. He smiled at her. 

“Lothbrok's got himself into a few scrapes over the years. His adventures sometimes leave him in dire circumstances without any possessions, including his keys. He’s made duplicates for just such occasions.” 

“Is his life so dangerous?” Hollis nodded, his expression suddenly grim. “The stories he’s told me—well, a policeman’s life is not a sedentary one, but even I marvel at what his profession requires.” By now Hollis had unlocked the door and escorted Isabella inside. 

The foyer was pristine and painted an ivory that glowed in the gaslit hall. Gesturing to the archway leading to another room, Hollis suggested she sit in there. 

“Or visit his library down the hall. I expect that’s the sort of thing you’d enjoy. I’m sure he’ll be back any moment now.” 

“You aren’t staying?” 

“I must search for Jasper. He is clearly a violent scoundrel and very possibly a killer.” 

“But what about the wolf—uh, the dog?” He didn’t bother replying. She felt dismissed and patronized, but while she felt awkward about being here by herself, she understood his priorities: he was obviously anxious to be on the hunt for the prime murder suspect. Isabella watched him shut the door behind him, and then she was left alone. Still unsteady on her feet, she walked through the archway to what turned out to be a parlor, the centerpiece of which was a piano. Isabella ran her hand along its dark brown, satiny finish, which gleamed warmly in the lamplight. 

Ivar's love of music was well known to her now, but she hadn’t realized he could play. And she knew instinctively that he could play; he wasn’t the type to own such an instrument for mere decoration. The thought of Ivar sitting at the stool and using his strong yet agile fingers on these beautiful ivory keys made her sigh, smiling. The silence in the house was nearly complete except for an odd grinding noise that Isabella couldn’t quite place. Perhaps the sound of the grandfather clock or the gas jets. She decided to pass through the corridor to see Ivar's library, as Hollis had suggested. Here her eyes widened and she stood in the doorway, gaping. 

The room was two stories tall and lined from floor to ceiling with thousands of books of every shape and size. Isabella breathed in the familiar leathery, papery scent, and she felt the tingle of goosebumps. The centuries of knowledge amassed here were almost tangible. Moving into this paradise, she let her fingertips graze the books’ spines, discovering a collection as eclectic as any she’d seen. The multiple volumes of Gibbon’s Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire. Shakespeare’s works. Botanical encyclopedias. Criminology texts too numerous to count. Victor Hugo’s The Hunchback of Notre Dame in the original French. Medical books with titles she couldn’t even pronounce, though one author’s name stuck out at her at once and made her grin. Joseph Bell, the inspiration for Sherlock Holmes. How appropriate! she thought. 

Strolling the length of the room, she came to a rolltop desk covered in piles of books, neatly stacked papers and notes. One open folder atop the desk blotter held engraved illustrations and photographs. She was too polite to dig into his notes—not wanting to intrude too much on his work—but the images were too tempting to avoid, so she turned her head to examine the illustration on top. It was more scientific material: this time, astronomy. The moon and all its phases were represented on the large sheet of paper, along with dates written in a neat, firm hand. Isabella had to smile. Is there no subject that doesn’t interest him? Feeling guilty about having invaded Ivar's privacy, Isabella returned to the parlor. On her way, however, she again heard the grinding, hissing noise she’d heard earlier. It must be coming from the parlor itself. Looking around, she discovered the source in a corner of the room: a square, wood-paneled phonograph machine, with dials and moving parts—including two small, bell-like pieces of silvery metal that whirled around like frenzied dancers. Instead of a regular record, a cylinder spun in place, the needle above digging into its groove and causing the hiss that echoed through the large, trumpet-shaped speaker. Isabella carefully lifted the needle’s stylus, letting the cylinder spin harmlessly and with far less noise. 

She wasn’t sure how to turn off this imposing machine, but figured at least now the cylinder wouldn’t be ground down. Isabella scowled at the phonograph. Ivar must have been in a great hurry to leave. Such negligence seemed utterly unlike him. Her contemplation was interrupted by an expansive yawn. Everything that had happened tonight had left her exhausted. As weary as she was, though, she didn’t want to fall asleep before Ivar returned home. She needed to explain herself—and get some explanations from him, as well. 

Plucking a book from one of the shelves lining the room, she sat on the brown leather armchair near the piano and began to read about some Scottish criminal cases from the early part of the century. Surely these would be interesting enough to keep her eyes open.... A loud banging startled her. When she opened her eyes, she saw the light from the window was orange and red—signs of the approaching dawn. So much for staying awake. Her head lay against her arm and the book had fallen to the floor. But the noise she’d heard couldn’t have been the falling book; it had been much louder, like a slamming door. Alarmed, she pushed herself up to her feet just in time to see a familiar light brown-haired man stumble in through the other end of the hallway. He was shirtless and to her horror his skin was bruised and bloody. 

“Ivar!” she gasped. He turned to her, and for a second she thought he didn’t know her. His blue eyes were glazed and unfocused. Then he blinked and the Ivar she knew looked back at her. 

“Miss—Miss Lang...” he said hoarsely, aghast. “What are you doing here? How in God’s name—” He cut himself off with a wince and ran a hand across his face. A wave of dizziness seemed to overtake him; he fell back against the wall. Isabella rushed down the corridor and took hold of his arm, examining the bruises on his shoulder and vicious scratches on his chest and forearms. 

“What happened to you?” Apparently too shaken to speak, he shook his head and tried to detach himself from her touch. Isabella used all her strength to pull his barely upright body to the parlor, where she helped him to the settee. He stared wildly at her. 

“Leave me, please.” 

“I need to clean and bandage those wounds,” Isabella said firmly. “I can’t see how bad they are. Do you have bandages? Any sort of ointment or—” 

“I have everything one might ever need, but I can tend to myself. You do not have to—” 

“Yes, I do. Now where are they?” He seemed to realize the futility of arguing, and reluctantly directed her to the bathroom, where she found a startling supply of gauze bandages and medicinal creams. 

Clearly Hollis hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d told her Ivar's life was full of dire circumstances—this collection could have healed an army. She grabbed as much as she could and dampened a towel in the wash basin before racing back to the parlor. But she hadn’t been fast enough: he was now sprawled on the floor, barely conscious. 

“Oh God, Ivar!” She fell to her knees by his side, lifting his damp head and gently wiping his face with the towel. His eyelids opened and he looked at the dawn sky through the window. Groaning, he turned to meet her gaze. 

“You must not stay,” he muttered. “It is too soon. I am not fit to be—” 

“I’ve seen shirtless guys before, stop being such a prude!” The words were trembling with concern for him. “Where were you hurt? I can’t see—” As she cleared away some of the blood and dirt from his skin, she was shocked to find a network of healed scars all along his arm and side. And then she came to a more recent, gaping wound in his arm. “Oh my God. What did this to you? Is this—is this a bite? Did you see a big dog out there? Because I know—” He pushed himself up onto his elbows, the sudden movement surprising her. 

“You must leave,” he said, his voice now harsh and guttural. “It is the worst time, it is the Cusp, I cannot... I beg of you...” 

“What are you talking about? The Cusp? Ivar, you’re not making sense.” 

“I know I am not! I am not in my full senses. I cannot protect you—” 

“Who’s asking you to?” She hurriedly finished wrapping the nasty wound on his arm. “God, you men drive me crazy. I can take care of myself—I can take care of both of us!” He tried again to protest, but Isabella pressed a single finger against his mouth. “Be quiet and listen to me, Ivar Lothbrok. Whatever you’ve been up to, I can handle it. I’m a lot stronger than you think. Most women are,” she added dryly. 

They fell silent. She felt the warmth of his lips and the moistness of his breath against her finger. He was staring at her now, pleading mutely with his gaze, but slowly the plea faded, hardened, turned into a demand. Ivar's hand lifted to clasp her finger and then shove it aside. With a single smooth movement, he straightened up and clutched her hair, pulling her away. 

“You are not strong enough for this,” he said—nearly snarled. “No one is. Go. For God’s sake, Isabella, leave me.” Despite his words, the fingers woven into her hair held her in place. Not that she needed to be held in place—she wasn’t going anywhere and didn’t want to. As their eyes locked, she felt as if electricity were coursing through his body and reaching from his fingertips to the back of her neck, wrapping around her, binding her to him like a fiery ribbon. She raised her hands to his shoulders, touching them gently in light of his wounds, and then traced his jawline. 

“I’m not leaving, Ivar,” she whispered, trembling with fear and longing. She tried to lean forward, despite his grip on her hair that caused some pain as she moved. “I want to be with you.” The still moment lasted for two heartbeats before Ivar groaned and seemed to give in to whatever he was fighting. 

He yanked her violently toward him and they met in their first kiss—and it was primal, ferocious, not a gentle kiss as Isabella had imagined. As weak as he’d been only minutes ago, he now seemed fully restored, and Isabella almost cried out with pleasure at the power in his arms when he crushed her to him. She couldn’t breathe and didn’t even care. His mouth was so heated, so forceful, he might have been seeking to capture her very soul. And she wanted no less from him. She matched his ardor, drawing his tongue more deeply into her mouth and revelling as its slight roughness tickled her deliciously. 

After breathless ages of this he moved down to her throat, causing her to sigh at the loss of his mouth. Then he nuzzled against her, kisses that licked her like flames, teeth that grazed her delicate skin just hard enough to sting. She held his head to her and raked her fingers through his damp light brown hair before lowering to caress the breadth of his back, his shoulder blades. Isabella was relieved but surprised to feel no additional scars beneath her fingers. This discovery was forgotten when Ivar reached down to her bodice and tried to unbutton it. She backed away from him slightly and tried to assist on her own—the dozens of tiny buttons were too dainty even for his deft fingers—but he was in no state to be patient. 

With a contemptuous grunt he hooked his hands beneath her neckline and yanked it apart. The buttons ripped loose and scattered across the floor. Though initially shocked at the destruction of her dress, Isabella recovered quickly and grinned, shrugging off the remains of the bodice and leaning forward again, hoping to have better luck with her corset. But her laces were torn free before she even had a chance to reach for them. And then he lowered himself to her breasts, with his mouth, his hands, each taking skillful measure of every inch of her exposed flesh, first tender and worshipful, then rough and demanding. An exquisite warmth was spreading through her and she needed him so desperately that she thought she’d scream. Finally she pushed his head away from her, making him moan in outrage, but she surprised him by reaching for his torn trousers to remove them. He drew himself up to his knees to make it easier on her and gave her a slow, crooked smile while she worked on his buttons. His eyes were narrowed, his nostrils breathing in the scent of her hair. She hadn’t been certain what to expect of Victorian male underthings, but discovered he wore loose, white cotton drawers that outlined both his thigh muscles and the straining proof of how much he wanted her. She touched him through the thin material and felt him shudder. 

He was barely restraining himself, she knew that. He’d already abandoned his self-control, his ever-careful demeanor, and this was the last vestige. So she didn’t touch him further, not wanting the moment to peak too soon, and wrapped her arms around him, kissing a trail from his abdomen to his chest and finally back up to his mouth as both remained on their knees before one another. They continued to kiss as Ivar moved his hand beneath her bunched-up skirt and caressed her slowly along her inner thigh. Her pantaloons were designed to be open at the bottom— something she’d felt self-conscious about over the last month, but for which she was now extraordinarily grateful. 

His fingers explored and teased her skillfully. She gasped and opened herself to him, sliding up against his warmth, wanting more, wanting him. He knew when she could take no more. Releasing himself from the confines of his drawers, he pushed himself forward, thrusting up to fill her completely, utterly. Isabella gasped and arched herself until there was not a millimeter of space between them. And now they were both insensible with need, moving apart, moving together, crying their names into each other’s mouth, elated and relentless and feral. His pace erratic and rough. The sound of skin against skin resembling a thunderous applause, sliding smoothly against one another from the slick of perspiration. His moans sounded other wordly; beast like growls tumbling from his plump lips, and it didn’t take long for the both of them to reach their ends with a moan of their names into the now silent air.


	9. Chapter 9

Isabella opened her eyes to find the sunlight streaming through the windows, bathing her and Ivar's bare bodies in its golden warmth as they lay entwined on the parlor floor. He’d fallen asleep with his right arm across Isabella's belly, his hand cupping her left breast protectively, possessively. She sighed with contentment at the weight and heat of his body against hers. A languorous smile spread across her lips. Last night—this morning, really—had been everything she needed, everything she’d dreamed. She’d never been so tired yet so happy. She turned her head carefully, not wanting to disturb him, and watched Ivar's sleeping face. It was so peaceful now. There was none of the torment, the anger, the wildness, that had made his usually handsome features so strange and startling last night. Even in slumber, he was hyper-vigilant. He seemed to know when he was being watched, for now his eyes fluttered open, sending the full impact of their blue gaze to her. She shivered at the intensity of his stare. Then she lifted a hand to his cheek, the back of her fingers grazing the fine shadow of stubble that prickled her skin. 

“Good afternoon,” she murmured. 

“Isabella.” Her name was a sigh. 

“How are you feeling?” He gave her a sleepy, lopsided smile. 

“Much better. But I must still be dreaming. You would not be here otherwise.” 

“Can’t you feel how real I am, Mr. Lothbrok? That’s no mirage you’re holding in that hand of yours.” His fingers curled and lifted slightly, as if hardly daring to discover that her soft flesh was incarnate, and then he lowered them again, delicately caressing her, brushing her nipple almost reverently. But then he froze. His smile disappeared and his eyes opened wider. 

“This is real. What happened between us... I remember it.” 

“I should hope so. It was wonderful.” She suddenly felt an edge of insecurity. “Don’t you think so?” 

“It was extraordinary, Isabella.” The words were sincere. Isabella could tell from the molten timbre of his voice. Yet something was wrong. Her heart sank while she examined his expression, which was unchanged, but his eyes were dark with some inner conflict. He had regrets. He had doubts. She refused to let him express them, not yet. So she hastened to change the subject. 

“You seem to recover quickly, thank goodness. Your wounds didn’t bleed again despite all our, uh, activity. You’re not in any pain?” 

“No.” 

“That’s a relief. Can you tell me what happened? Who attacked you?” He swallowed. 

“Attacked?” 

“Yes. Obviously you had a fight of some kind. Or maybe...” She gently touched his arm bandage. “Or maybe you came up against a wild animal? I know there was a—” 

“There was no attack.” 

“No attack?” She raised her eyebrows. “Ivar, you were scratched up and badly bruised. And that injury on your arm looked like a bite mark—” 

“It was no bite. I admit to a scuffle. I was—a case I am investigating led me to some unsafe areas last night, down by the River. I was set upon by a suspect.” 

“But what did he do? Did he get away? Are you going to tell the police—” 

“To the last, no. I can say nothing further.” 

“Does it have anything to do with the Gresse Street killer?” 

“I repeat, I cannot tell you.” He had closed himself up to her. The heat of resentment built in her chest. 

“Then I’ll tell you something. Aren’t you curious about why I’m here?” When he nodded, she continued relentlessly, “Your friend Hollis escorted me and let me in. I was on my way here because I found out you’ve been asking Alicia to spy on me.” 

“I was simply trying to assure myself of your safety—” 

“Yeah, she said you thought I might be the killer’s next target. Well, you were wrong.” Ivar lifted himself up to lean on his elbow, staring down at her. 

“What are you saying?” 

“I’m saying there was another murder last night—Dot, a maid at Thomas Lodgings. She was killed, her throat slashed and... and she’d been mauled.” His lips tightened and horror flickered across his face. And... something else. Something Isabella wouldn’t let herself identify. 

“I remember her,” he said eventually, turning away. “She was a kind, conscientious young woman. I am sorry... very sorry.” Isabella nodded and watched him run a hand through his disheveled light brown, straight hair. 

“I thought, since you were out, you might have been investigating the killer. I have to admit, I’m surprised you’re not on the case.” He didn’t respond except for a shake of his head. He was mulling something over. Isabella couldn’t believe the difference in his mood, from both the wildly sexual man he had been only hours ago and the peaceful, happy man who’d woken up with her. She couldn’t bear it anymore. “Ivar, what’s wrong? Talk to me. Please, I want to know what’s going on!” Finally he got to his feet, pulling his trousers back on. His beautiful, muscular body was framed and silhouetted by the sunlight and she drank in the sight, even though dread gnawed at her. Then he bent to retrieve the shredded remains of her bodice, staring down at the torn maroon material. 

“I did this,” he murmured. He shook his head again. “I am very sorry, Miss Lang.” Miss Lang. The name felt like a slap. 

“I don’t care about the stupid dress.” 

“But I apologize, notwithstanding.” Taking a deep breath, he turned back to her at last. “I regret... I regret losing my control as I did. I should never have let myself—” 

“Let yourself?” Isabella scrambled to her feet and stepped toward him, her naked body desperate to feel him against her once more. 

“Neither of us really had a choice. It was something you couldn’t stop and neither could I!” 

“There are things I cannot control in my life,” he said darkly. “That was not one of them. It is my responsibility—” 

“Oh, to hell with that! I know how uptight you are. You’re obviously a total control freak, but there was nothing wrong with what happened between us.” She could tell he was confused by her vocabulary but she couldn’t be bothered to censor herself to 19th century sensibilities. “For once you acted on your impulses, you acted spontaneously, just as I did. And it was incredible! There’s nothing to regret, Ivar.” 

“You do not understand. You cannot.” 

“Why? Because I’m just a hysterical woman and you’re the brilliant detective? Why not just explain it to me? I might exceed all your expectations.” He surprised her—he smiled. It was rueful and crooked but there was affection there as well. 

“You ever exceed my expectations, Miss Lang,” he said softly. “You are intelligent and intuitive beyond anyone else I’ve ever known. But this I cannot explain. Do not ask me to.” She stood there for a moment, trembling, and he reached out, as if to smooth back a lock of hair from her forehead. But then he pulled his hand away. Touching her was apparently no longer an option. It was the last straw. She snatched the bodice from him and gathered her clothing from the floor. He murmured that he would leave her to dress on her own, and stepped from the room. When she’d returned to some semblance of a normal, appropriate appearance, Isabella left his house without saying goodbye, her heavy cloak protecting her half-clothed upper body from the cold autumn afternoon. As she stalked down the street, her thoughts raged wildly from the violence of Ivar's blood-covered, anguished entrance into his home last night, to the frenzied ecstasy of their lovemaking, to his strange reaction to the news of Dot’s death, and finally to the frustrating confusion of his behavior just now. What is wrong with him? I don’t understand what I said to upset him, and I’ll be damned if I can think of any reason... Her march down the street slowed. 

She remembered the expression in his intense blue eyes when she’d told him about Dot, the emotion she hadn’t dared acknowledge to herself. Isabella shook her head. He had known Dot. Perhaps that’s why he’d been so moved. He was familiar with Thomas Lodgings and had been there dozens of times. It must have just been his close connections there. Ivar had said that the killer seemed to have a connection to Thomas Lodgings. Isabella stopped in her tracks, letting the crowds of people jostle her. She couldn’t stop thinking of that look in Ivar's eyes. She knew what it was, now. She had denied it before, but she couldn’t any longer: it had been guilt. Naked, fleeting guilt. The realization struck her cruelly. She couldn’t help recalling Ivar's behavior last night, and even his actions surrounding the last murder—when Ruby had been killed. Ivar had been noticeably distraught the next morning, just as he was now. And he’d been absent the night before that murder, too. After concluding the investigation into the jewel theft, when he’d grabbed young Giles Carrisford and struck him, his face had been furious, almost uncontrolled. Then he’d disappeared. Isabella was still now, looking down at her hands but imagining the blood on Ivar's hands and body this morning. What if the blood hadn’t been his own? What if he’d removed his shirt to destroy the evidence? The scratches on his arms and throat... Perhaps they hadn’t been caused by someone attacking him. Perhaps it had been someone trying to defend herself. I’m going crazy, she thought, lifting a hand to cover her mouth—as if clamping down her suspicions. He’s a famous detective, admired by everyone, written up in newspapers, best friends with a policeman. 

My God, even Nettie thinks the world of him, and she’s afraid of everyone— She caught herself in mid-thought. Nettie. Did she really think the world of Ivar? Had Isabella misjudged their interactions? The scarred woman always seemed unusually quiet around him— shrinking from him, in fact. Maybe this wasn’t shyness. Maybe it was fear. She told me to be careful, didn’t she? I thought she was jealous. Only yesterday, she said I was in danger and I thought she was threatening me. But she was warning me. She was trying to protect me. The man who’d scarred Nettie, who’d brutally murdered so many women... Ivar couldn’t possibly be capable of such a thing. His elegance, his intellect, his restraint, his passionate belief in justice... Could such a man be hiding a beast? Had she slept with a killer? Was she falling in love with a killer? Isabella felt ill. No. This was madness. She had to erase these insane thoughts from her mind. She had to get some reassurance from someone. Soon she was running through the crowded London streets to the one man who probably knew Ivar best—to Hollis Pargeter, at the police station many blocks away. Isabella was grateful that her upset, unkempt appearance didn’t seem out of the ordinary to the sergeant at the station’s front desk. True, he hadn’t addressed her as ‘miss’ before going to fetch the Inspector. Probably thinks I’m a streetwalker, she thought with a harsh laugh to herself as she sat on one of the two long benches in the lobby. Before long she heard Hollis calling her name and she looked up to find him hurrying down the stairs to meet her. His face was filled with relief and embarrassment. 

“Miss Lang! I’m so sorry, I never got a chance to return to Lothbrok's place—” 

“Please, may I speak with you in private? I know you’re very busy, but this is extremely important!” His blue eyes examined her in sober concern. 

“Of course,” he said, taking her arm and leading her through the narrow corridors to a private office. “Please be seated, Miss Lang. You—are you alright? After everything that happened last night—” 

“I’m fine, honestly I am.” She self-consciously pushed back her hair in an effort to seem more composed. “Did you find Jasper?” 

“Regretfully, I did not. We’re looking for him everywhere, and have learned more about him from the other maids at Miss Thomas’s lodgings. Apparently he’s a somewhat notorious figure, at least where servant girls are concerned. He has attempted to, er, force his attentions on a few of them.” Though Isabella grimaced at this news, part of her couldn’t help feeling a little relief. If Jasper was truly a likely suspect, her doubts about Ivar were probably unfounded. Hollis was still looking at her carefully. “Forgive me, Miss Lang, but you seem unwell. Have you had any sleep, anything to eat? Did Ivar fetch a doctor to see to you?” 

“No. He was... he was a bit out of sorts himself.” 

“Too out of sorts to attend a woman who was upset? I’ll have a word with him, that doesn’t sound like him at all.” 

“Doesn’t it?” Isabella swallowed and met Hollis’s curious gaze across the table. “Hollis, you know him very well, don’t you?” 

“Certainly. We’ve been friends and, at times colleagues, for ten years.” 

“Have you noticed anything different about him, lately?” 

“Different?” 

“Moody.” The word didn’t seem to help and she tried to think of a better description. “Um... his emotions going back and forth, from calmness to anger. Agitated. That sort of thing?” 

“His temperament can vacillate at times. The man is driven, more so than anyone I’ve ever known. He can be quite impatient with others and especially himself.” 

“But you do trust him.” 

“Implicitly. I’ve even entrusted him with family troubles when we needed his unique flavor of services....” Hollis looked down at his hands. “One does not forget such a thing.” 

“Has he ever been—a danger?” 

“A danger?” The policeman stared at her. “My dear Miss Lang, what do you mean?” Oh God, how much do I tell him? She bit her lip nervously, not wanting to cause trouble for Ivar but too afraid to stay silent. 

“He didn’t arrive home until very late. And when he did, he was... he was hurt. Bleeding.” Hollis looked alarmed. 

“Is he all right? What happened?” 

“That’s just it. I don’t know. I mean, he’s fine now, all the injuries required was some cleaning up and bandages. But I don’t know how he got hurt. He wouldn’t tell me.” Brushing a finger across his golden mustache, Hollis was silent for a moment, the expression on his red face thoughtful. 

“Probably just one of his escapades,” he said eventually. “As I told you, his cases can run to the bizarre and, at times, dangerous.” 

“What could he be investigating that could be so—” 

“I have no idea. Lothbrok often doesn’t consult me until it’s time to make an arrest. An omission I wish he’d rectify, but the man is proud as the devil himself.” The devil himself. Isabella suddenly remembered Ivar as he’d torn the lace from her corset, as he’d smiled in satisfaction when she reached for his trousers, as he’d made her cry out with otherworldly pleasure. Devilish indeed. Her face burned with the memory and she looked away. Hollis continued. “I’ll have a talk with him, though. I hate to think of him meeting an end by misadventure simply because he tried to solve one dangerous case too many. Will that ease your fears?” She nodded distractedly and stood up, as did he. When he took her hand, he spoke to her in a gentle voice. “Your concern and friendship do you credit, Miss Lang. I hope you’ll not shy away from Lothbrok just because his profession is a peculiar one. He would be fortunate indeed to have someone such as yourself looking after him.” 

When Isabella left the station and headed back to Thomas Lodgings, she was relieved to be able to dismiss her wild suspicions; she could breathe again at last. Even so, the less important issue still nagged at her: why had Ivar been so cold toward her once they’d slept together? He’d pushed her away and acted as if the whole thing was a huge catastrophe. That sort of morning-after behavior wasn’t exactly great for the ego. She arrived home, left word with Alicia that she was alright, had some tea and biscuits, and finally hurried up to her room to get some much-needed sleep. But her doubts were insidious, winding their way through her mind until she couldn’t disengage them from her thoughts even as she napped. By the time she woke, the sunlight was almost gone and her room was dark and chilly. 

She looked up at the shadows on the ceiling and remembered, somewhat ruefully, how happy she’d been just this morning when she’d woken up. She had been so content, so dizzy with warm emotion, and Ivar's oddness and secrecy had snatched those pleasant feelings away. Anger sparked in her breast. It wasn’t right. Maybe Victorian women weren’t expected to confront men and push them to admit their feelings, but despite her clothes and hairstyle, Isabella Lang was no Victorian woman. She washed and dressed quickly and sneaked downstairs, not wanting to alert Alicia that she was heading out for the evening again. Managing to slip out the door successfully, Isabella made her way back to Bedford Square, this time staying well out of the alleys. She’d speak to him and perhaps he’d realize she was no one to set aside. Maybe he’d understand the depth of her feelings. He might even acknowledge the depth of his own. The sky above was a pale mixture of purple and orange when she arrived at Ivar's townhouse. She could hear music from inside—a recording of a woman singing, her voice a sweet soprano. The song was lovely and familiar, but Isabella was in no mood to enjoy it. Well, he’s home, anyway, she thought with satisfaction as she rapped the heavy brass door knocker. She saw him glancing out through the parlor window, his scowl evident even from this distance. His footsteps on the marble floors preceded the opening of the door. There he was, his handsome but worn face staring down at her. And Isabella was almost bowled over by the sudden longing that overwhelmed her. 

“Miss Lang,” he said, his voice guarded. “What are you doing here?” 

“We need to talk.” She ignored his shaking head and ducked beneath his arm to enter the foyer. “This can’t wait.” 

“It must. You must leave.” 

“Not gonna happen.” Marching into the parlor, she stood and folded her arms across her chest, waiting for him. “Come on, Mr. Lothbrok. You’re a man who appreciates action and words. We’ve had the action, now it’s time for the words.” His flushed face shone with perspiration. 

“Miss—Isabella—I do not wish to talk about this now.” 

“Why not?” She swiveled around, gesturing first to the leather chair, then the phonograph. “You’re just having a cozy evening in. Listening to music. I don’t see why—” She cut herself off when she spotted an open bottle on a silver tray by his armchair. “What is that?” Ivar let the door close and strode into the parlor. 

“Nothing. Medicine. This is not—” 

“I recognize the label. The doctor gave it to Nettie when she was hysterical after finding Dot.” She clutched the bottle, staring at him. His agitation was almost radiating off him. “It’s laudanum. It’s a drug, an opiate. What is wrong with you? Are you an addict?” 

“I take it at most three times a month to help me sleep.” 

“To help you sleep? At this hour? I don’t think so. Ivar, please talk to me. Tell me what’s going on.” 

“You have to leave, Isabella, there isn’t time for this!” She shook her head, feeling a bit hysterical herself. 

“Do you care about me? At all?” 

“My God, of course I do. That is why you must leave!” 

“That doesn’t even make sense! After what happened—” 

“What happened between us was a mistake! I wronged you grievously, Isabella.” 

“Wronged me? What we have is right, Ivar! And I wanted it, every bit as much as you did. I still do, Ivar.” She went up to him and took hold of his arms, feeling him tremble beneath the silk of his ivory shirt. He reached up and clasped her head, fingers entwining through her soft hair. 

“You. Must. Go,” he whispered, holding her as if to crush her in his strong hands. The music from the phonograph made a bittersweet accompaniment to his agonized words. “I beg of you, Isabella! I am not in control of myself.” 

“So what? I want to know the real you—when you’re in control, when you’re not in control, it doesn’t matter—I just want to understand!” He made a low sound in his throat and released her, nearly shoving her away. 

“I am not safe for you! Leave me!” As she grabbed onto the edge of the piano for support, Isabella dropped the bottle. The laudanum spilled on the carpet, the syrupy liquid sinking into the fibers. Alarmed, she looked at Ivar, but after one furious glance at the lost opiate he met her gaze at last. “There can be only one woman in my life,” he said, his voice strained. “The moon. She is the one who truly controls me.” 

“I—I don’t understand.” 

“I am a lycanthrope!” The shouted words resounded in the room, even against the piano strings. “You’re an educated woman. Do you understand that?” 

“A lycanthrope...” Isabella's eyes widened in recognition. “A werewolf?” Wincing in pain, he flung a desperate look at the sky. 

“If you won’t leave, I must,” he muttered. Then he spun around to flee the room. His departure shocked Isabella—as had his insane declaration— but she was resolute and followed him through the narrow hallways of the townhouse, ending up at a door that led to a cellar. He practically galloped down the stairs with Isabella hard on his heels. The darkened hall was short and ended in a massive, thick planked wooden door that was slightly ajar. Ivar slammed his hand into the door and rushed inside. Isabella was gape-mouthed as she took in the barren room, which consisted of nothing but a dirt floor and a set of chains and handcuffs bolted to the wall. 

“Ivar, what is this?” He ignored her and clapped one wrist into the iron cuff. His movements were disjointed, as if his bones and muscles were betraying him. Then, whirling around, he snarled at her and shoved her from the room. 

“Go!” he shouted, eyes reddened and glassy. “If you’ve any compassion for me, leave!” 

Before she could say anything more, the door slammed in her face. She could hear the bolt sliding home even as she grabbed for the handle, and she knew it was futile to try and pull the door open again. The metallic clang of the chains echoed in the barren room and for a moment it was the only sound. She breathed in gasps, dizzy and confused, and backed away from the door. Soon she heard a noise—a noise such as she’d never known before. It was a low moan that soon rose into a furious, inhuman howl. The walls of the cellar were thick, brick and plaster, and no noise would penetrate to the outside—but within the cellar itself, Isabella could feel the otherworldly sound going right through her. The moans and howls continued until she thought she couldn’t bear them any longer. Then there was silence, ominous and heavy. She waited and then stepped back to the door, pressing her fingertips against it. 

“Ivar?” Her trembling voice was barely audible and she forced herself to call louder. “Can you hear me?” A roar was her response, followed by something heavy collapsing thunderously against the door. The vibration made her fall back in terror. Ivar—or whatever he’d become—was snapping, growling, scratching at the door in a rage, trying to escape. Isabella sank to her knees, horrified. She crawled away, hoping that Ivar would think she’d left. But she couldn’t leave. For the rest of the night, she remained in the cellar, safe on one side of the door as Ivar desperately battered against the wood, strained against the clinking chains, and—finally—turned the fury against himself.


	10. Chapter 10

That long, ceaseless evening was hellish. Isabella spent most of it with arms cradling her knees to her chest, listening helplessly to the wolf’s enraged howls and mournful baying, interspersed with its frenzied attempts to shred the door with its claws and batter it with the force of its body. She could hardly comprehend that this animal, this vicious creature, was actually the supremely rational, cultured, self controlled man for whom she’d grown to care so deeply. Yet now everything that had puzzled her about Ivar since they’d first met, all the mysteries, made sense. His sudden disappearances. His unwillingness to get too close. His strange mood swings. Even the moon charts she’d found on his desk. 

Great. I finally find the perfect guy and he turns out to have two minor flaws: he’s from a different time period and, oh yeah, he’s a werewolf. After several hours of listening and sobbing and thinking, Isabella gathered her strength, wits and emotions together. She knew she had to do something, anything, to help Ivar. So in the morning when the grandfather clock upstairs struck eight, and the latch was slowly unbolted from inside, a weary and bleeding Ivar opened the door to find Isabella curled up beneath a blanket, surrounded by bandages, towels, a water basin, a pot of tea, and a fresh set of clothes. She opened her eyes and saw him leaning against the doorframe, barely able to stand. His muscular body was nearly naked, with only his torn drawers remaining, and with angry bites and scratches all over his arms and legs. His wounds were even worse than the day before. He had no words. But Isabella did. At once she rose and held out a tentative hand. 

“Let me help you,” she said softly. Ivar shook his head. 

“I cannot believe you stayed,” he said, his voice a raspy shadow of itself. “You heard all that, and yet you stayed.” She ignored his weak protest and moved to support him. He staggered and it was clear he wouldn’t be able to walk up the stairs, not yet. Helping him down to the blanket, Isabella proceeded to clean his injuries and bandage those that required it. She poured him a cup of tea and insisted that he drink it as she worked. Finally they sat together, leaning up against the wall, where Isabella had propped up some pillows to make him comfortable. They’d said almost nothing until now. Isabella looked at Ivar, who wasn’t meeting her gaze, and asked him in a low voice: 

“Is it always this bad?” 

“No.” The word was cracked and broken. “Whenever possible I try to ease the transitions.” 

“That’s what the laudanum is for?” 

“Yes. I take it to relieve the pain and, especially, to fall asleep so I may avoid the worst part of the transition.” Isabella remembered something. 

“The Cusp?” Ivar's eyes widened. “How do you know of that?” 

“You mentioned it yesterday. You said it was the worst time. Why? Is that when it’s most painful? You seemed in such agony last night.” 

“The transition demands the breaking and reshaping of my muscles, sinew and bones.” He said it so matter-of-factly, so dryly, that Isabella shuddered. Such a horror was a regular part of life for him. “But no, that isn’t the Cusp. The Cusp is the period when my mind is human—barely—yet my strength is lupine. The cunning of a man and the hunger of a wolf: the worst halves of two damned souls, merged into a single monster.” He ran a hand over his mouth. “This is when the world is most at risk from me.” 

“So that’s why you chained yourself up, even though it didn’t seem to hold the wolf.” 

“The wolf slips easily from the chains. But the wolf cannot unlatch the door. It requires the man to do that. So I chain myself beforehand so that during the Cusp, I cannot reach the latch. And the laudanum helps me sleep so I do not even try. Usually the ritual works. I take the laudanum, I listen to music—music calms the wolf, just as the laudanum calms the man. Last night, that was not possible.” Because of me. 

“Oh God, Ivar... I’m so sorry. I should never have intruded... I made it worse for you.” 

“The wounds will not last long. A rapid ability to heal is a benefit of my changed physiognomy.” 

“That’s not the point! This is all my fault!” 

“You’re not to blame.” 

“I am. If I hadn’t dropped the bottle, you’d have been able to take it, and you wouldn’t have been so badly injured. I don’t understand it, though. All the scratches and bites... why is the wolf hurting itself this way?” 

“It isn’t, not intentionally. When the wolf catches the scent of unattainable prey, it turns against the only human it can find—the one within.” Isabella closed her eyes. 

“You mean all this happened because the wolf scented me. Because it couldn’t get at me. So I did hurt you.” When she looked at him again, tears spilled down her cheeks. “Forgive me, Ivar, I would never have stayed if I’d realized it would harm you. I thought I’d be able to calm you down, I thought—” 

“You could not have known. I—I did not wish you to know.” She had no doubt of that. He’d probably have preferred to take this secret to his grave. 

“I told you I wanted to know all of you.” He made a noise like a hollow laugh. 

“And now you do—at least, more than anyone else does. Are you not gratified to know a monster?” 

“You’re not a monster!” Taking hold of his face, she turned him toward her. “Look at all you do to help people, to protect everyone from yourself. These aren’t the acts of a monster.” Ivar looked at her evenly, his blue eyes narrow. 

“And what of murder?” Isabella's heart pounded against her ribs. 

“Murder?” 

“What if I am a killer? What if I am, as you called it, the Gresse Street Beast?” Every survival instinct within her told her to draw back, to flee. But something more powerful than that held her in place. 

“You aren’t,” she whispered. “You can’t be.” 

“Because you care for me? You’re not so naïve to believe a woman’s tender feelings are an accurate measure of a man’s soul.” 

“Ivar, are you—are you admitting your guilt to me?” After an agonizing silence, he turned away. 

“The truth is, I do not know. I cannot recall what I do during the transition. That is the man you have given yourself to, Isabella. Someone who is genuinely unaware of whether he’s a brutal murderer. I wish I were not capable of it. But the signs are all there. The crimes only occur at the full moon.” The grim truth stared her in the face. She remembered how brightly the moon had shone the night of Ruby’s death. And of course, now Dot’s, too. Despite this—and even though she herself had thought him a suspect yesterday—she struggled against the horrible possibility. 

“All right. But even if this is true, why must it be you?” 

“I have woken with the taste of blood, Isabella,” he said hoarsely. “It might be my own—but it might not.” 

“That’s not what I meant. You’re obviously not the only werewolf. I don’t know how this whole thing works, is it something you had from birth—” 

“No. I was changed by another.” She held his hand and looked down at it, entwining their fingers. 

“Can you tell me... how it happened?” 

“It was five years ago.” His voice was very quiet, very grave. “A man disappeared from his London home and I was engaged to find him. I traced him to Dartmoor, where I came across his captors. I did not realize it then, but they were a feral society— those who choose to live the lives of wolves even when the moon is not their master. They prefer to remain outside society, stealing and maiming and killing because they enjoy it. Animals more than men.” The words were tight with contempt. “Back then I knew nothing of werewolves. I sought to recover the kidnap victim, not knowing what I’d walked into. What they’d turned him into. And so when I tried to take him back to safety, to his home and family, I was bitten—by the man I’d been sent to save.” Water dripping from somewhere in the cellar was the only accompaniment to his tale. At last he took a deep breath and went on. “The others tried to get me to join their number, now that I was one of their kind. I refused. And so I returned here and maintained my life and humanity as best I could. A selfish folly, I realize that now.” He shook his head and sent a dark, swift glance to her. “To answer your question, Isabella... no, there are no others such as myself in London. I would sense them. Thus, if the killer is a werewolf, it is I.” 

Isabella had gotten used to the dimness, with only a hint of daylight reaching through the street-level windows, and so by now Ivar's face was clearly visible. She could see the gnawing doubt in his eyes, the tension etched into faint lines of his forehead. She would do anything to relieve him of the torment. Leaning over, she kissed his temple, then his cheek, and finally, tenderly, his mouth. His fingers reached up to stroke her jawline before pulling back from her. 

“This is impossible,” he murmured. “You must now see why being with me is impossible.” 

“No. I don’t see that.” 

“Good God, Isabella, are you mad? After all I just told you—” 

“You told me of your condition. You didn’t tell me of your guilt. You said if the killer is a werewolf, it’s you. Well, maybe the killer isn’t a werewolf. What evidence is there?” 

“Pargeter does not tell me much. And for obvious reasons, I have never been able to examine the scenes of the crimes myself.” 

“Because they’ve occurred during the full moon.” 

“Yes, or the nights before and after. Those are the nights I transition.” 

“I wondered why you weren’t investigating the crimes. I suppose Hollis knows he can’t get in touch with you—” 

“Pargeter knows my schedule is erratic, but he does not know why.” 

“Are you serious? He doesn’t know about your—condition?” 

“Of course not. Do you think he’d have brought you to my door the other night if he’d known what might happen?” Isabella felt her cheeks turn warm with the memory. 

“Oh. Yes, naturally, you’re right. Still, you should tell him. He’s your closest friend!” 

“He is also a dedicated policeman. A man of law. I would not presume on that friendship and expect him to ignore the fact that I am a danger to society...” Ivar hesitated, his gaze focusing on something distant, something Isabella couldn’t see. He shook his head and continued. “He would do his duty and lock me up in Newgate—or Bedlam, if he thought me mad. Or perhaps he’d simply have me put down.” She flinched. 

“Don’t say that.” He smiled crookedly, looking a bit more like his old self. 

“A sense of humor is my only defense against this, Isabella. That and the attempt to live as human a life as I can for most of the month.” After a moment of silence as Isabella drank this in, he continued. 

“To return to the crimes: from what I understand, the method used is animalistic. Very much like the way a werewolf hunts. Torn throat. Evisceration.” 

“That’s not conclusive. What other evidence is there?” 

“There are no witnesses, no clothing left at the scene, no weapons.” 

“How about fingerprints, blood typing, hair samples, DNA—” Isabella had been counting the suggestions on her fingers, but when she looked up at Ivar's expression, she abruptly cut herself off. Her words were gibberish, at least in 1892. Ivar stared at her with narrowed eyes, the speculative look she knew so well. “I am well aware of criminal investigative procedures,” he said carefully. “Fingerprints are clearly unique identifiers and I’ve no doubt they’ll be of extraordinary value, but there is currently no repository of examples, no way to match one against another.” 

“Uh... yes. I realize that.” 

“And most of the rest of the things you speak of are unknown to me.” 

“I see. Right. They’re just... things I’ve read about. In journals.” Raising an eyebrow, he stood up with difficulty. Thanks to her help earlier, he was now wearing his silk shirt and dark brown trousers, but his feet were bare as he paced the small space. 

“You know, Isabella, you speak so calmly of all this. Murder. Lycanthropy. I wonder that you accept such grotesque tales with such ease.” A little surprised by the change of subject, Isabella watched him walk to test his newly reformed muscles. 

“I wasn’t very calm last night,” she said. “But I had time enough to consider everything, and... well, it’s reality, isn’t it? Over the past several weeks I’ve learned that the universe is a very strange place.” 

Nodding, he murmured, “‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio.’ I expect Shakespeare had no idea how prophetic his words were. Would even he have imagined a werewolf?” He continued to pace and added, almost as an afterthought: “Or a woman from the future?” Isabella inhaled sharply. 

“Ivar—” 

“I knew from the first day we met that you were not from London. You did not smell of it. My senses are heightened even during the regular days of the month, but in those preceding the transition, my abilities are greatly enhanced. It is a benefit to my profession.” She could well imagine. He went on smoothly. “Of course, it is a leap in logic to go from knowing you’re not from London, to suspecting you hail from the future.” Ivar faced her again. “Yet everything about you is different. Your demeanor, your idiosyncratic speech, the very way you carry yourself. It is nothing like other women I’ve ever met. Even our suffragettes, who demand voting equality as their right, cannot shake off decades of society’s lessons on how to act a subservient woman.” Ivar's voice lowered, his glance at her figure full of admiration. “You move with the freedom of a woman such as I’ve never known.” Her throat suddenly dry, Isabella shook her head and tried to focus on his astonishing deduction of her secret. 

“These can’t be the only reasons—” 

“No, it is those things and, further, the things you’ve said. That opera you mentioned, La Bohème, by Puccini. This composer has written two insignificant operas, neither of which is the one you claim is famous. You’ve mentioned other such works, from poems to novels to plays, none of which exist. You once asked me about Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, though the author has not been knighted. And now there is your unusual knowledge of scientific procedures far from current practice.” He stepped closer to her. “Meanwhile, the minutiae of everyday life elude you. How much things cost. How to use a gas lamp. How one gets in and out of a carriage. Even, forgive me, the simplicities of underclothing. Corsets are new to you, where they would not be to any adult woman of this age.” Isabella couldn’t deny this, and she realized she didn’t want to. She couldn’t keep the truth from this man who’d shared his most painful secrets—his darkest fears—with her. 

“You’re right, Ivar. I know it sounds insane, but yes, I’m from the future.” 

“Time-travel, insane? You are speaking to a werewolf, are you not?” He sounded triumphant—was this how he was when his cases were solved? “From when have you traveled?” 

“More than a hundred years from now. The beginning of the twenty-first century.” The magnitude of her revelation seemed to stun him. He took a moment to digest this before starting to pace again. 

“I have dozens of questions. Thousands.” He swiveled on a heel, aiming his sharp blue gaze back toward her. “But I shall not ask them. I must not. The future cannot be knowable, even when a witness to it stands right before me. The temptation to abuse knowledge would be far too great.” Isabella felt a swell of admiration for him. And this man thinks he’s a monster. He walked up and clasped her hands. “But perhaps you can tell me how you arrived here? Surely that would not be dangerous?” She explained briefly about the book and her experiences arriving in the middle of a rainstorm, nearly being run down by a carriage. Ivar's mouth parted at her description of the book. “An account of these crimes. It must have the solution to them!” 

“No. That’s the whole point, Ivar. The crimes were never—” His expression stopped her. She knew she’d said more than he wanted to know. “Anyway,” she said hurriedly, “it’s lost. I’ve been searching for weeks and it hasn’t turned up. I don’t know how I’ll get back. Or even if I want to.” Ivar took hold of her shoulders. 

“Of course you do. I cannot even imagine the advances and inventions and discoveries you’ve experienced. We must appear prehistoric to you.” 

“Honestly? No. In many ways, 1892 is a wholly different universe from my present, but the people themselves... I haven’t seen anyone who wouldn’t, in one way or another, fit in. Especially you.” His eyes darkened. 

“What would my place be there? No. Even if it were possible, I would not go to the future only to contaminate it.” Isabella grabbed hold of him. 

“Don’t you dare say that. You’d be safer there. There are better locks, better medications... maybe scientists could cure you!” Her optimistic words made him smile, but he didn’t seem convinced. Instead, his arms enfolded her. 

“Isabella,” he murmured against her heated lips. “I don’t deserve the sunlight you bring to my life.” 

“You deserve much, much more than you think you do. And we’ll prove it. Together.” She clutched his shirt. “We can find out if these deaths are really caused by a werewolf. There must be a way. What if... what if you could see the victims? Couldn’t you identify your own bite marks? Your own scent? If you really attacked Dot, surely you’d be able to tell.” Ivar nodded slowly. 

“I have tried, but the police would not let me view her. They are protective of their cases—and even if they were not, bodies in the morgue are not available for public viewing, except to relatives or those who might identify—” 

“Hollis couldn’t get you in?” 

“As I said, I have asked. His superiors would have his head.” He pressed a finger against his mouth in thought. “It might be possible to slip in on a pretext. I know my way around the station house. Time is short, though. It is already noon, and I haven’t much time—this is the last night of the wolf.” 

“What about tomorrow?” 

“It must be today. Dot will be buried soon. And—forgive me— waiting will make her condition less than optimal for my purpose.” Isabella clutched his sleeves. 

“Let me help.” 

“Isabella—” 

“I can assist you, Ivar. I can help you get inside today. Please let me!” He reached forward and this time, unlike yesterday, he let himself brush back a stray lock of her hair that had fallen to her forehead. 

“I suspect I cannot keep you from your reckless ways, Miss Lang.” During their argument yesterday, his use of her last name had felt like a slap; now it was a lullaby... a prelude to the kiss that followed, warming and energizing Isabella's entire body, filling her with desire. Too soon for either, they parted and headed upstairs. They had work to do, and the afternoon—and then the dreaded moonlight—would arrive far too quickly.


	11. Chapter 11

Once she and Ivar came up with a plan, getting into the morgue turned out to be easier than Isabella had hoped. She arrived at the police station’s inquest mortuary by herself, solemn and pale, and explained that she had been a dear friend of the victim. Earlier she had spoken to Hollis, explaining with wide-eyed innocence that she wished to pay her respects to Dot. Despite his protests that the mortuary was no place for a lady, Isabella's tearful pleading led him reluctantly to provide a note of permission. She now handed the note to the mortuary attendant, who—recognizing Hollis’s signature—allowed her in. Isabella was used to television and film’s depictions of sterile, clinical, forensic examination rooms. This was very different. Three people, covered with sheets, lay on wooden tables in a dark, cool room lined with ghastly-looking implements. The stench was unpleasant and Isabella covered her nose with her handkerchief. 

“That’s ’er,” the attendant said with a gesture toward the table nearest the window. “I wouldn’t lift that sheet past the ’ead if I was you. The face ain’t bad but I don’t think you wanna see the rest.” She bit her lip and nodded. Glancing at the window, she noticed the afternoon light had dimmed. The day had turned cloudy and now promised rain. Quickly she returned her attention to the body and stepped closer. The attendant had pulled down the sheet to reveal Dot’s face. Isabella's eyes welled up with grief at the sight of the poor girl, so pale and still. She looked at the attendant, who seemed bored. 

“I don’t suppose... is there any possible way I might have a few moments alone?” The ginger-haired man nodded and looked at his pocket watch. 

“I’ll be out ’ere, miss. Just don’t touch nothin’, please.” When he was gone, Isabella waited five seconds before rushing to the window. Turning the window’s crank to open it, she found Ivar hanging onto the edge, having climbed up stacks of crates in the alley below and performed a miracle of physical finesse to grab onto the wide window ledge, where he knelt now, waiting. 

“My compliments,” he murmured, beaming at her as he swung himself up and through the opening. When he landed his muscular body seemed weightless, making no sound that might be heard by the attendant. He took off his coat and pocket-watch, handed them to Isabella, and instructed her to keep track of the time. Then he lifted a hand to her damp cheek. “Are you alright?” 

“It’s tougher than I thought. She was so kind.” Ivar placed a steadying hand on her shoulder. 

“Know this, Isabella,” he whispered, wiping away the tears still damp on her face. “If I committed this heinous act, I shall give myself up at once. If I did not, I’ll not rest until the killer is brought to justice.” Though she nodded, Isabella felt a stab of fear. Suddenly she regretted having helped him inside. Part of her didn’t want him to examine Dot’s body—didn’t want to know the truth. And it would be the truth; Ivar wouldn’t lie about finding something self incriminating. Isabella knew this as she knew the sun would rise tomorrow: Ivar Lothbrok would follow through on his vow, though it would cost him his life. It’s not fair, he can’t help what he becomes, she thought desperately as he walked to the table where Dot’s body lay. 

His gaze was as steady and sharp as a sword, despite the dread of confirming his worst suspicions. He took a final glance at Isabella. “You should not look. Or if you feel you must, stay well back.” For once she didn’t argue. He gently pulled back the sheet and, leaning on the table, bent down to peer at Dot, searching for anything that might indicate the origin of her fatal injuries. Isabella kept her focus on Ivar, resolved not to stare at poor Dot’s horrific wounds. Ivar's expression was not very different from his usual ‘hunting for clues’ manner. His eyes scanned with laser-like precision, his breathing was deep and steady, his agile fingers moved from injury to injury as quickly and delicately as a lacemaker. 

Isabella looked down at Ivar's watch and the lateness of the hour alarmed her. Not just because the attendant would surely come back soon, but because the afternoon was dying and evening would soon take its place. Never had she been so aware of the passage of time—only now, knowing how treacherous the moonrise would be to this man. The man she loved. She hugged herself at the surprising realization. Oh God. I love him. How can I love someone I’ve known for so short a time? Someone who could be a vicious killer? But I do. Each second waiting for his judgment was an eternity. 

Finally she whispered: “It’s been nearly ten minutes. Anything?” He was examining Dot’s arm, holding it lightly, like a piece of china. And she realized his face was ashen. 

“This wound,” he muttered. “It is definitely a bite.” The pronouncement sent a swell of dizziness through Isabella's entire being. Don’t faint, she told herself, clasping the edge of the nearby countertop. Stay strong. He’ll need you. 

“Are you sure?” He looked back at her. 

“A bite,” he repeated softly. “But not a wolf bite. And certainly not mine.” Isabella stared for a second and then walked, almost staggering, to his side. 

“Are you sure?” she asked again, now daring to hope. Ivar rolled up his shirtsleeve and ripped off a bandage she’d placed on one of his wounds this morning. 

“This is my work,” he said, his voice shaking as he pointed at the angry red scarring. “If you can tolerate it, look at this wound on Dot’s arm. They are similar but not identical.” She followed his gaze and, swallowing at the gruesome sight, nodded. As she was about to ask him another question, a noise from outside alerted them both. With an astonishing burst of speed, Ivar grabbed his coat and climbed back out the window, disappearing from sight just as the mortuary attendant knocked on the door and entered. 

“All right, miss?” he said, taking a proprietary glance at Dot’s body. The sheet was back in place and nothing looked disturbed. “Best go now.” With a grateful nod, Isabella thanked the man and lost no time in leaving the room and running downstairs to leave the building. On her way she bumped into Hollis, who was glad to see her changed mood and launched into his usual friendly banter, talking about theater plans he’d made with Alicia, but Isabella had no patience. She clasped his hands and thanked him profusely for getting her inside to see Dot, and finally fled outside. When at last she reached Ivar, waiting in the alley, she practically leapt into his arms. 

“It wasn’t you,” she said in between kisses and sobs of both joy and released tension. “It wasn’t you!” He returned her kisses fiercely, clasping the sides of her face and drawing her up to him. She could feel how relieved he was— there was a difference in his stance, in his very breathing. 

“It wasn’t,” he agreed when their lips finally parted. “None of my hair, my saliva, my claw marks... I am innocent of this, Isabella. Perhaps I may finally set aside the fears I’ve had since the crimes began. All thanks to you.” Her hands ran through his straight, shoulder-length hair. 

“You’re the one who did the detecting.” Ivar's crooked smile was charming. 

“You must allow me humility, dearest Isabella. You’ll not hear it often.” 

“Fair enough.” She grinned and clasped his hands. “So did you see anything? Any clues whatsoever? What about the bite?” 

“Not an animal’s bite, though it looked very similar to one. As did the scratches.” Isabella searched his face. His complexion was still wan, not aglow with triumph, and a tempest seemed to be brewing in his eyes. 

“What is it? Something’s bothering you.” 

“The wounds. While they were not mine, they were very like a werewolf’s.” 

“Could they belong to someone going through the Cusp?” He nodded silently, and she went on. 

“But you said there weren’t any others in London. You said you’d be able to tell—” He shook his head, but since he remained silent, she couldn’t tell if this was in answer to her questions or those in his own mind. Then he looked up at the sky, wincing. Even the dim light here was affecting his more sensitive eyes. 

“It is late. I must get you home.” Soon they were seated side by side in a hackney coach, with Isabella again pursuing the line of thought. 

“If it is another werewolf,” she said quietly, “might it be the man who turned you? He was from London originally, you said. Maybe he returned after all—” 

“No.” The finality in his voice convinced her, but Isabella had to ask. 

“Why? What—what happened to him?” Ivar's jaw worked. 

“The same thing that often happens to werewolves who turn another. He was set upon and killed by the very rival he’d created.” Inhaling sharply, Isabella couldn’t think of a response. She just tightened her grip on his hands as he closed his eyes, the admission clearly a painful one. He continued in a hard voice. “The other werewolves—the pack, they call themselves—later told me that this is an instinctive reaction. A new werewolf is very low amongst the pack hierarchy, you see; it knows it must show strength, and so it seeks to kill as soon as possible. Nature, red in tooth and claw, as Tennyson put it. Yet still reprehensible.” He sent a troubled gaze to her. “When I returned to London, I told his family he was dead. But I could not tell him how he ended. What he’d become. Not merely for my own sake, but for theirs as well. His brother, his wife, his children... they did not deserve such a horror.” He breathed deeply. “So there it is, Isabella. I am a killer. Innocent of these latest crimes I may be, but I have killed.” 

“I’m sorry.” She turned his face to hers. “But you couldn’t help yourself, and you’ve done everything you can not to repeat the act.” He nodded slowly, but looked distracted. He was clearly turning something over in his mind. 

“Red in tooth and claw,” he repeated, almost intoning the words. “The marks on Dot’s body... they truly were a fair impression of a werewolf attack. Someone used an implement to gouge three lines close together, looking much like a set of claw marks.” The horse’s hooves trotting on the cobblestones were the only sound for a moment while Isabella digested this. 

“You’re certain it wasn’t another animal?” 

“Yes. The scent was wrong. It was...” Ivar just shook his head, frowning. Isabella frowned too. 

“I know this sounds crazy, but could someone be framing you? Someone who holds a grudge—a criminal you helped put in prison? A dissatisfied client? A rival of some kind?” 

“I have made some enemies, yes.” The words were automatic. “But no one knows what I am. Except for you.” 

“I hope you know I’m not guilty.” This made him smile. 

“If I am sure of no one else, I am sure of you.” They reached Gresse Street and both left the carriage. Ivar preferred to walk the rest of the way, his muscles already bothering him. They stood outside Thomas Lodgings for a moment, holding hands. Now that Isabella knew the night Ivar had ahead of him, she hated to let him go. She could even now see the perspiration beading on his forehead and dampening the edges of his light brown hair, and could feel the tremors throughout his body. If there were anything she could do... 

“There is nothing,” he said grimly when she asked. “But I am used to it. The laudanum will help. And the music.” 

“The beautiful music. That song in particular, the one you were playing last night. I’ve heard it before. It’s so lovely and bittersweet. Is it a favorite?” Ivar nodded. 

“I admit it is a sentimental choice, but something about the tune and the words... it calms me as no others do.” They were alone and Isabella risked kissing him. 

“One more night, Ivar,” she whispered. “One more and it’ll be over for the month.” Smiling, he lifted both her hands to his mouth, tenderly pressing his lips to her fingers. But slowly a scowl again lowered his brow. 

“Isabella,” he said after a moment. “Whom have you seen today? Spoken with?” 

“You, mostly. But when I was back here to dress, I saw Alicia and Nettie, and some of the other women. And Hollis was at the police-station, of course. He was going on about his theater plans tonight... which reminds me, this afternoon, Alicia asked me to accompany them, but I...” She trailed off when she saw his growing agitation. “Why?” He released her. He had the edginess again—the same restless mood she’d seen twice before now. Only now she understood its cause: the pull of the rising moon. 

“I do not like to leave you,” he said, staring at her. “Will you promise me that you’ll stay here? And go nowhere, see no one?” 

“I was just thinking about going out to the theater. That would be all right, wouldn’t it?” Ivar's lips tightened and he kept his voice very low. 

“No. I beg of you. Do not go out with them. This is the last night, but the danger is still great.” 

“But you said it wasn’t a werewolf.” 

“There is one more night when this person may strike. Now promise me, Isabella. You’ll remain at home, off the streets. You’ll bolt your door—” 

“All right, I promise. Of course.” He kissed her again, fervently now, his mouth more demanding. Isabella felt the rush of desire and wished they could keep going throughout the night, but Ivar forced himself to part from her and after a last, apologetic look, began hastening down the block to his home. The rain began and Isabella hurried inside the townhouse.


	12. Chapter 12

Isabella woke from a fitful nap, plagued by dreams of Sadie turning into a ravenous beast bent on murder. She lay on her bed, her heart pounding, and stared into the room. A noise had woken her and she wasn’t certain what it was. Then it came again: a knock on her bolted door. “Miss? You sleepin’?” She groaned at the sound of Nettie’s worried voice. 

“I’m trying to,” she called, hugging the pillow. 

“But I need to talk to you. It’s ever so important. It’s about Miss Thomas!” Isabella frowned. 

“What do you mean?” 

“Inspector Pargeter’s come callin’ an’ she’s supposed to go with him, but she’s not here. She’s not anywhere.” Inhaling sharply, Isabella sat up. 

“Are you sure, Nettie? When did you last see her?” 

“About an hour ago. She was goin’ down the shops an’ said she’d be back in a bit. I thought she’d come back but now I don’t know. You ain’t seen her?” Isabella leapt from her bed, threw back the latch and opened the door to find Nettie wringing her hands in concern. 

“No, I haven’t. What time is it?” 

“Goin’ on six o’clock.” Surprised that it was still so early—apparently her nap had been shorter than she’d thought—Isabella glanced down the corridor. 

“What about the other lodgers? Have you asked—” 

“’Course I did. No one’s seen her. An’ Inspector Pargeter’s still waitin’.” 

“We must tell him. We have to find her!” As she hurried through the dark hallway, Isabella's heart was in her throat. Not Alicia, not Alicia... please let her be okay! Nettie was right behind her. 

“I think she’s gone to see him. I think she’s in league with him.” 

“What? What are you talking about?” Isabella reached the second floor landing and glanced furiously back at Nettie. “Not your silly suspicions again!” 

“They ain’t silly!” Nettie grabbed her arm and Isabella nearly stumbled down the stairs. “You think it’s a coincidence? Everyone dyin’ around us an’ that Thomas woman keeps bringin’ more girls here, right to his lair? Girls like Ruby and Dot. Like me. Like you.” Isabella stared at her. 

“Alicia was trying to protect Dot! She threw Jasper out and wanted Dot to be safe. And I know for a fact she was at home when Dot was killed—Alicia was with me the whole time.” 

“Sure she was—keepin’ you busy! Givin’ herself an alibi while the Beast went on with his business.” Breaking free of Nettie’s grasp, Isabella continued racing downstairs. But her mind also raced. Alicia had invited Isabella to stay rather quickly; she’d also been the one to pour the drinks the night of Dot’s murder, keeping Isabella occupied. No, this is crazy. Why would Alicia do something like this? And who would she be helping, anyway? She reached the ground floor and dashed to the parlor, where Hollis stood, tapping his toe impatiently. He swiveled when she burst through the doorway, his eyes wide with surprise. 

“Miss Lang! What is the matter?” 

“Alicia isn’t here,” Isabella exhaled. “We can’t find her.” Scowling, he checked his pocket watch. 

“Dash it, we were to dine before the performance at—” 

“No, you don’t get it, Hollis. She’s missing. She went out supposedly just for a minute, and hasn’t returned!” His expression darkened immediately. 

“That is unlike her. Who saw her last?” 

“Nettie.” Isabella spun around to face the other woman. “Nettie, come in here!” The young woman’s face was flushed as she addressed Hollis and explained Alicia's movements this afternoon. 

“I think she went to meet him,” she finished in a near whisper. Ignoring her, Hollis moved past the women and headed to the entrance. 

“I’ll try to find her. Would you two please come with me? You might be able to show me her common routes.” Isabella hesitated, remembering Ivar's request. But this was different—as long as the three of them stayed together, there would surely be no danger. The killer had never attacked anyone but a lone woman. Soon the three were marching in the dwindling light, with Nettie keeping a slower pace and Isabella urging her to remain close. Nettie directed the others, knowing Alicia's regular shopping habits best. Isabella barely paid attention to where they were headed, too busy peering down every street and alley they passed, terrified she’d find signs of another victim... of Alicia. Before she knew it they’d reached the park near Bedford Square. Hollis stopped them, turning back to scowl at Nettie. 

“This cannot be right. Does she really go this far? There are no shops here.” Nettie’s face was nearly white except for the raised scars lining her cheek. 

“I-I’m sure,” she whispered. “I seen her here.” He glanced around, obviously frustrated and concerned. 

“This is getting us nowhere. I must alert others and do a proper search. Come,” he said, snatching hold of Isabella and Nettie’s hands and practically dragging them along until they arrived—to Isabella's alarm—at Ivar's house. 

“Wait, what are you doing?” she asked, hanging back as best she could despite the strength of his grip. “Why are you stopping here?” Without even knocking on the door, he reached for the hidden brick and pressed it, released the duplicate key. 

“I’ve no time to take you ladies back. You can stay here for now.” 

“No, we can’t!” Isabella cried. She flung a desperate look up at the sky, but the cloud cover prevented her from knowing how high the moon was. “Hollis, we shouldn’t go in there, he’s not home, it’s not—” 

“Don’t be absurd. Do you want me to find Miss Thomas or not?” He’d already opened the door. Isabella was aghast. She didn’t even know exactly when Ivar's transition would occur, or how long it took—last night she’d been too upset and frightened to keep track of the time. What if that terrible howling reached through the floorboards, revealing his transition, exposing his secret? Ivar's life would be destroyed. 

“Please don’t go in there, please!” She grabbed onto Hollis’s arm in hopes of pulling him back, but he swung around and, catching hold of her wrists, drew her inside the house. 

“Nettie!” he yelled, maintaining his iron-like grip on Isabella. “Get inside now!” No matter how hard Isabella tried, she couldn’t wrest herself free. She saw Nettie’s wide-eyed face as the girl shook her head. 

“No, I won’t. Please don’t make me! I wouldn’t’ve come if you’d said I had to—” 

“I said now!” Hollis’s uncharacteristic rage shocked Isabella, as did Nettie’s obvious terror. But Nettie obeyed and hurried inside, shutting the door behind her. Isabella darted her gaze everywhere, from the foyer to the parlor to the sliver of corridor beyond, but there was no sign of Ivar. She could hear the phonograph whirring away at the end of a cylinder, though, and to her inexpressible relief, she saw the open bottle of laudanum and a glass, which—if Ivar's explanations had been accurate—told Isabella that he would be sleeping by now. At least he won’t be in pain. And maybe he won’t howl once the transition begins. 

“Let go of me,” she demanded, still trying to pull herself from Hollis’s grasp. “Fine, you forced me inside. I’ll stay here. But take Nettie with you. You can search for Alicia—” 

“Nettie isn’t going anywhere.” Nettie rushed forward to grab his elbow. 

“Hollis, please, you promised, you said—” 

“Be still!” Too shaken to continue her struggle, Isabella stared at Nettie. Hollis. She called him Hollis. She’s never done that before. What’s going on here? Looking at Nettie, at Hollis, Isabella suddenly felt her muscles seize with fright. Their body language, Nettie’s pleading expression, her use of his first name... Things Nettie had said the night after the opera flew back into Isabella's mind. 

“You went out with ’em last night. What was he like? Was he kind to you? What did he say? He’s ever so handsome, isn’t he?” She’d thought Nettie had been talking about Ivar—she’d thought he was the object of Nettie’s affections. But no: it was Hollis. In fact, Nettie was clearly terrified of Ivar. She hadn’t even wanted to enter the house. Why? What can she know? Hollis examined Isabella and drew her closer. She’d never seen him look this way, with his ruddy features grim and immobile, his eyes shining and feverish. 

“You know,” he said softly. “Don’t you?” Her every nerve ending was alive with alarm. Something was wrong. She couldn’t make sense of it, but something was definitely wrong. 

“I don’t understand,” she stammered. “You know about her and me.” His voice lowered. “And about Lothbrok, too, I think.” She went very still. 

“What—what about Ivar?”

“Don’t be silly, Miss Lang. Your reluctance to enter the house tonight made it clear that you know his true nature.” The declaration stunned her. So Hollis knew! He knew about Ivar's lycanthropy, perhaps had done so all along. Mind reeling, Isabella desperately tried to play for time so she could figure out what was going on. 

“I really don’t know what you mean. Hollis, please let me go. You must find Alicia!” 

“There’s no need.” 

“What? What are you talking about? Do you know where she is?” 

“Don’t worry. You’ll see her soon.” As Isabella's eyes widened in confusion, Nettie gasped and shook her head. 

“That ain’t what you said. This ain’t like you promised—” 

“For God’s sake, be still, Nettie. Don’t you want the Beast caught?”   
“But you didn’t say nothin’ about—” With a violent jerk of his elbow, Hollis shrugged Nettie off from him before dragging Isabella into the parlor. 

“I cannot understand you,” he said, with some effort since Isabella was struggling to get free. “A woman of your intelligence, being with Lothbrok. Knowing what he is and staying with him despite that.” 

“He’s a wonderful man. Why wouldn’t I love him? Hollis, where’s Alicia?” He ignored her questions and latched onto a single word. 

“A man? No, not a man. A beast.” 

“You’re his best friend! How can you say such a thing? If you know what he is, you must know how much he’s suffered, how much he’s fought to live a decent life despite—” 

“Decent?” Nettie rushed forward, covering her scars with a hand. “Do you call it decent, what he did to me? Left me with these for the rest of my days?” Isabella gasped at Nettie’s furious face. That’s why she’s so afraid. She blames him for what happened to her. Oh God, is it possible... ? 

“He didn’t. He couldn’t have.” 

“Yes, he did. He destroyed her life,” Hollis said flatly. “As he’s done so many others. Too many others. It stops tonight.” Nettie nodded, eyes glazed with tears. 

“I’m sorry, miss, but he did this to me. An’ he killed Dot an’ Ruby an’ the others. He’s the Gresse Street Beast!” 

“But I know he isn’t!” Isabella focused on Hollis, hoping to get him to see reason. “We went to the morgue to look at Dot—yes, I let him in, I’m sorry for abusing your trust, but we had to take a look. And the bite marks aren’t the same as Ivar's. I saw the difference clearly. You must believe me, I saw them myself!” Nettie’s mouth parted and she stared from Isabella to Hollis. 

“Is that true?” Hollis kept his gaze on Isabella for some time in silence and then, to her relief, released her. 

“I am sorry, Miss Lang,” he said quietly, walking slowly around her. Isabella exhaled and clutched her sore wrists, rubbing first one, then the other. 

“That’s all right,” she said shakily, trying to include Nettie in her words. “The important thing is that you know the truth. And we must find Alicia, that’s all I—” A damp cloth covered her mouth, held there by Hollis’s strong hands on either side of her head. A sickly sweet, medicinal smell overwhelmed her as she fought for air. 

“I am sorry,” Hollis murmured again in her ear, and it was the last thing she heard before all was black.


	13. Chapter 13

The first thing Isabella saw when her eyes opened was her own hair, covering her eyes. Instinctively she tried to brush it away—but couldn’t. Her hands were bound behind her. She pulled and turned against the ropes but it was to no avail. The ropes and chair she’d been placed in held her fast. 

“I apologize if you’re uncomfortable,” Hollis’s voice said from somewhere behind her. “It will not last much longer.” She shook her head violently to move the hair from her eyes so she could see where she was. It took a few seconds for her to recognize the barren room, the scratched white walls, and the dirt floor beneath her, but when she did, her mouth fell open and her heart slammed against her ribs. This was Ivar's cellar room. Which meant... She twisted around to her left. There, handcuffed and lying in chains, unconscious from the dutifully-taken laudanum, was Ivar. His muscular body wore nothing but his white drawers; Isabella could see that the scars and wounds from last night were already mostly healed. But his skin was glossy with perspiration and tremors shook his frame. The transformation would come soon. 

“Looks almost normal, doesn’t he?” Hollis said, fastening the knot around the chair and stepping from behind her. “Has the whole of London completely fooled.” Isabella's mouth was bone dry with terror. 

“Hollis,” she croaked. “What are you doing? He—he’ll change any moment now!” 

“I know. I ask your forgiveness, though I don’t expect it. This must be done. He must be stopped.” 

“You’re insane. He’ll kill us both!” 

“I won’t be here. I’ll be upstairs.” Hollis straightened. “I assure you, Alicia was to be my original choice, but I believe you already know too much of all this. You were at the morgue today, and you know of Lothbrok's monstrous life... I cannot risk it.” 

“Where is Alicia? What have you done to her?” 

“She is at home, where she’ll sleep off the chloroform instead of ending up here.” Hollis pursed his lips. “I am sorry. Whatever may happen, I cannot let this creature continue. Everything I’ve done has been for the good of all London. For my family, for all of us.” Everything he’s done... 

“Oh my God. Hollis, did you kill them all? Have you been framing him the whole time?” His face turned brick red. “You don’t understand. He’s a murderer! And yet he’s honored and feted and beloved by all of society—it is too much to bear! I’ve done all this to reveal his revolting nature once and for all.” There was no time for Isabella to focus on all this. Ivar would transform soon and slip from his chains, a vicious creature demanding flesh and blood. And there would be no escape; she was trapped, a lamb to the slaughter. A sacrifice for the wolf. Terror seized her and she neared hysteria. 

“Hollis, please, don’t do this. Please! I’ve done nothing. Ivar's done nothing—” 

“Nothing! He never told you what he did? Of course not, he’s made you think him a knight in shining armor. He thinks I don’t know. He lied to me, all these years...” The clinking of chains arrested their attention and both Hollis and Isabella turned to Ivar. His head had shifted position and his arm muscles had tightened, pulling at the handcuffs binding him to the wall. Hollis leapt toward the door and pulled a pistol from his coat. He aimed it at Ivar, in readiness. But Ivar was still asleep, drugged. “I believe there’s still time,” Hollis muttered. “But not long now. I’ll have to go.” 

“For God’s sake, don’t do this! Even if you care nothing about me... think what it’ll do to him, to wake up and see what he did to me. You’ve been his friend, he couldn’t have been wrong about that!” 

“I was his friend. And I trusted him. Five years ago he betrayed me, he betrayed everything we both stood for. The lies end tonight.” He lifted the pistol warily, his gaze not budging from Ivar's now visibly trembling form. 

“Hollis—” 

“Goodbye, Miss Lang. Forgive me.” 

“Hollis!” But the door slammed shut behind him. Leaving her alone with the man she loved. With the creature who would murder her. Isabella breathed in gasps and pulled with all her might against the ropes. She sobbed Ivar's name, hoping to rouse him, to get his advice, to see him looking at her one final time. She had no idea what to expect. Last night she’d only heard the transformation, not seen it. When the change began, Isabella cried out in alarm—it was so sudden, from the small tremors to a sudden violent spasm of his entire body. His head lolled back and his brows lowered in a frown, wincing in pain even with the opiate numbing him. Now his eyes opened with a glassy, unfocused gaze. For an instant he looked right at Isabella, but there was no sight or recognition. His shoulders twisted and strained, trying to free his wrists from the chains, but he was still human—at least his shape was—and the cuffs bound him in place. At least it won’t look like him, Isabella thought wildly. Whatever kills me will look like the wolf, not Ivar. 

His throat emitted a sound, a moan that seemed to come from deep in his gut. She recognized it—this was the start of that horrific, otherworldly howling she’d heard last night. It began low and rose in volume and pitch until the roar echoed throughout the room. His back arched and he cried out, his cuffed hands curled into claws. And before her eyes, his nails sharpened. The mouth she’d kissed, that had tenderly kissed her fingertips, widened and grew, pushing out, sneering with teeth that turned into knife-like fangs. Silver-gray hair sprouted and covered his body, which contorted, twisted, cracked itself into impossible shapes as he shrieked and howled his outrage at the cruel moon. She had no idea how long it lasted. When the metamorphosis was finished the creature’s body slumped, front paws slipping from the chains. He collapsed on the blanket, panting, tongue sliding past pointed teeth to cool itself in the damp cellar air. And his eyes, those captivating, intelligent, piercing blue eyes, opened to reveal that they’d turned a glowing amber that was completely unrecognizable as human. Ivar was no longer human. He wasn’t entirely wolf, either—he was much larger than any regular wolf, his chest and leg muscles too thick, the face too short. He was beautiful and terrible. And as soon as he recovered he would attack. His nostrils moved, flaring, scenting her. He moved his head slowly, the wolfish eyes taking her in with what might have been a frown. Teeth bared, he slowly pushed himself up on four wobbly legs. 

“Ivar,” she whispered, weeping and almost insensible with fear. “Please understand me. Please don’t—” He snarled and she fell silent, barely able to breathe. The wolf’s eyes narrowed as he approached, probably confused by her immobility. He was stalking his prey, though unfamiliar muscles made the slinking motion tentative. She didn’t know what to do. She couldn’t move. She was helpless and soon the wolf would lunge, the way she’d seen him leap over her the night of Dot’s murder. Isabella wanted to scream but knew that would be disastrous. Her soft words hadn’t calmed him, a loud noise would be much worse. What could calm such a creature? And then, just as the wolf stood before her, inches away, lowering its haunches in preparation—she remembered the answer. Music. The song. 

“Just a song at t-twilight, when the lamps are low...” Her voice was almost inaudible and shaky but the melody was clear. And the wolf’s ears pricked forward. Its eyes narrowed, as if calculating—much like Ivar when calculating a puzzle. “And the flick’ring shadows softly come and go...” He cocked his head, now listening, suspicious. As she continued, the wolf was frozen in place. Only the fur over his ribs and chest moved as he breathed—more slowly now—not the rabid panting from before. Ivar had told her the music would calm the wolf, and it had. “... Still to us at twilight comes love’s old song, comes love’s old sweet song.” By the time she let the last word die in the air, the wolf was right before her, so close its breath fanned her face. He stared at Isabella, meeting her gaze with unnerving steadiness... looking for all the world as if he were trying to recognize her. Or perhaps trying to communicate with her. She licked her lips. 

“Ivar?” she whispered. “Can you understand me?” The wolf didn’t move. Isabella tried again, her heart hammering. “Ivar, if you can understand me, give me a sign, do something. Anything.” Looking her over, the wolf suddenly bared its teeth again in an angry growl. Isabella jerked back against the chair, newly afraid. The wolf’s head darted forward, mouth open and drooling, and Isabella squeezed her eyes shut in terror—only to feel a tug on the rope wrapped around her arms. When she opened her eyes again she saw the animal biting on the ropes, pulling and gnawing until the cords broke loose. 

With her arms free, Isabella was able to untie herself. The wolf— Ivar—backed away, staring at her. His calmness was tentative, she knew that; there was an air of electric danger surrounding him, like a coiled snake prepared to strike. She edged carefully to the door, backing up every step of the way, watching the wolf as he watched her. A swift move later and she’d unbolted the door. But just when she thought she was free, just when she swung the door open, the wolf leapt upon her, shoving her backward as she screamed his name, pleading. After looking down at her, a paw on her chest, the wolf suddenly spun around and fled through the open door, legs stretching and bounding toward the stairwell. Stunned, Isabella managed to gather herself and stagger forward in pursuit. The gun, Hollis has a gun! 

When she reached the parlor she saw the flash of Hollis’s pistol. He was trying to aim it at the lunging wolf, but the creature was too fast and strong. He landed on Hollis’s chest with a ferocious growl, claws digging into the man’s shoulders and forcing him to the floor. The gun fell from the policeman’s grasp. Nettie screamed and cowered behind the piano, covering her eyes. Unable to reach his weapon, Hollis used his large, powerful body as best he could to try to knock the attacking wolf from him—to no avail. The beast was unstoppable. Finally the wolf’s head snapped out with open jaws, his deadly teeth seizing Hollis by the throat. 

“Ivar, don’t!” Isabella's desperate plea reached the wolf through its loud growling and Nettie’s cries. He froze, amber eyes shifting to look at her. “Don’t kill him,” she said, trembling. “Please.” The wolf maintained his position, atop Hollis’s prone body, his tongue tasting Hollis’s skin, dripping fangs pressing against Hollis’s jugular—but he did not finish his attack. Isabella hardly dared move, but she forced herself. 

She slowly moved to grab the pistol, aiming it at Hollis. And so they spent the night in this bizarre tableau: Nettie pleading with Isabella to see reason, Isabella telling her to shut up while keeping the gun pointed directly at Hollis, and the wolf poised to strike, its sides heaving and muscles taut with restraint. Hollis just stared up at the wolf as if hypnotized. The sky visible through the window turned lighter, to a dusky purple and just as the clock tolled four, the wolf let out a mournful whine. His legs began to tremble and weaken, his tail lashing erratically. The transition was upon him. Isabella didn’t want to see this again—she especially didn’t want Nettie and Hollis to see this change, something Ivar considered private and loathsome. But the wolf seemed determined to stay at his vigilant position as long as possible and there wasn’t anything Isabella could do to prevent nature, or magic, or whatever force held power over Ivar's body, from running its course. Soon the wolf had no choice but to release Hollis’s throat. Blood trickled from the points where the fangs had pressed against Hollis’s skin. The wolf stumbled off Hollis and fell to the carpet, whining and snarling. 

The policeman pushed himself up onto his elbows, but Isabella retrained the barrel of the gun on him and ordered him not to move. All three of the humans watched the wolf howl and shudder, the bones cracking and muscles reshaping. The silver hair and thick claws shrank inward, as did the animal’s snout, and finally the red-gold eyes that had been staring pleadingly at Isabella the whole time morphed back to blue. And Ivar was there again, his muscular form naked, trembling and soaked in perspiration that plastered his light brown hair to his face. Isabella, tears falling, pulled off her cloak and draped it over him. When Hollis started to sit up, she glared up at him. 

“Don’t you move,” she spat viciously. “Not a goddamned muscle.” 

“You had power over this beast,” Hollis whispered, almost inaudible. “It—it is not possible!” 

“I love him. He loves me. And you are the beast.” 

“The Gresse Street Beast.” Ivar's words were muffled against the floor but they shocked everyone in the room. He used all his strength to pull himself up, turning to the man who’d been his closest friend. “It was you. All along. All those women, you killed them.” Hollis remained silent. Nettie, weeping, shook her head. 

“No. No, it wasn’t him. It was you, you know it was!” Ivar shook his head and kept his steady, still unearthly gaze on Hollis. 

“I examined Dot’s body, Hollis. You’ve tried all along to prevent my seeing the victims, even when I asked to participate in the case. But this afternoon I saw. The marks were not mine, the scent was not mine. It was you. I didn’t recognize it at first, but then I smelled the same scent on Isabella this afternoon—after she saw you at the station.” 

“That’s not possible!” Nettie cried. “He’s not a werewolf!” 

“True,” Ivar agreed bitterly. “He’s something far worse: a man who commits heinous acts under the guise of righteousness.” Isabella clutched the gun more tightly. 

“He murdered those poor women in order to trap you, to frame you. He said he resents all the fame and honors you’ve received—” 

“That’s not it!” Hollis’s solid, red face turned redder. “That bastard knows why I really did this!” 

“Why?” Isabella blurted. “What reason could there be? What justification can you possibly offer?” Ivar was the one to answer, his voice a near-whisper. 

“To avenge his brother.” Isabella's mouth fell open. 

“What—what do you mean?” 

“Hollis’s brother was the man who disappeared five years ago, the man I sought in Dartmoor.” 

“The man you murdered, you mongrel abomination!” Hollis yelled, pushing himself forward. Ivar's restraint disappeared and he lurched up to meet Hollis in a movement so swift Isabella couldn’t even follow it. She leapt to her feet, still holding the gun, but there was no need. As exhausted as he was, Ivar's strength during the Cusp was far greater than Hollis could defend against. Ivar slammed his elbow into Hollis’s throat and shoved the policeman against the wall, forcing him into stillness. 

“So you went to Dartmoor and discovered how he died,” Ivar whispered. “Clearly you learned what I am. But you didn’t learn what he was—that he was a werewolf. He was the one who did this to me.” Hollis’s eyes widened. 

“No.” 

“Yes. I never wanted you to know, but you leave me no choice. The truth is, your brother had been turned to a werewolf long before I found him. Then he attacked me, turned me. And on instinct, the creature killed its maker. I regret it deeply but there was nothing I could do.” Hollis was breathing heavily but he said nothing further. The horror in his eyes spoke enough for him. Isabella suddenly remembered Hollis mentioning how he’d once entrusted Ivar to assist with some family troubles. “One does not forget such a thing,” Hollis had said darkly. Of course, she’d had no idea what he’d meant… Ivar turned to Nettie. 

“I do not even know what you’re doing here, Miss Ashdown. But since you are, and now that you know what I am, I must acknowledge what I did to you. When I learned of your attack last year, I suspected I might be responsible.” 

“You been sendin’ me money,” Nettie whispered. “Every month, letters with no name but plenty of cash. You sent ’em to keep me quiet.” 

“Not to keep you quiet. Not even to make up for the attack, for I cannot do that. But to assist you. If there were anything more I could do—” 

“You didn’t do it, Ivar.” Isabella shook her head, staring at Hollis. “I’ve seen you as the wolf twice. You’ve regained more control than you realize. Hollis has been taking advantage of her. I think he’s to blame for Nettie’s attack.” Nettie had slowly moved away from the piano, and now walked as if in a trance over to Isabella. 

“That’s not true,” she said, eyes wide and red. “He loves me.” 

“I’m sorry, Nettie.” Isabella's voice was soft and sympathetic. “Did you really see the wolf, the night you were attacked?” The girl stared at her and shook her head. 

“I met Hollis the day it happened. He was at the hat shop where I worked. Said he liked me. Asked me where I lived. An’ after I got hurt, when I lost my position at the shop, he came by an’ was so sweet. He said he knew what’d done this. He said—he said he could capture him. It. With my help.” She covered her tear-streaked face. “Oh miss, I never thought he’d try to hurt you! He told me he was just gonna use you an’ Miss Thomas to scare him. I never thought—” Isabella wrapped an arm around her. Over Nettie’s weeping head, she met Ivar's weary, vindicated gaze. But she relaxed too soon. With a harsh sob, the devastated young woman beside her wrested the gun from Isabella's hand and rushed toward the men. 

“It’s your fault, it’s your fault!” she wept. Ivar and Hollis’s eyes widened in alarm and Isabella lurched forward, but she was too late. The gun blast echoed throughout the room, and Ivar staggered backward. Isabella cried his name. No longer supported by Ivar's arm, Hollis Pargeter remained in position against the wall for only a few frozen seconds. And then he sank to his knees, fell to the floor, and was still.


	14. Chapter 14

The light snow landed gently on Isabella's hat as she stood on Tottenham Court Road, peering in the window of Bilbrew’s Bookshop. Through the glass, she could see her former boss patiently teaching the new clerk her position. 

“She’ll do well,” Ivar said, tucking Isabella's gloved hand in his elbow. “It was thoughtful of you to recommend her for the situation.” With a smile, Isabella looked up at him. 

“Nettie seems so much happier now. Even after everything she’s been through. She isn’t afraid, the way she used to be. Now that the Gresse Street killer is gone, none of the women in the neighborhood are afraid.” 

“Nor are the men who love them.” He leaned forward and brushed some snowflakes from the fringe of her hair, tenderly kissing her forehead. They walked along the streets to Bedford Square, which looked like a classic Christmas illustration in the falling snow. Once inside Ivar's house, the pair sat before the fireplace, watching its burning glow only briefly before staring into the warmth of each other’s eyes. 

“I have a present for you,” Ivar said, his lips pressed softly against hers. “Though I do not know how well you’ll like it.” 

“How can you say such a thing? Of course I’ll like anything from you!” Raising an eyebrow, he said nothing but just reached into his coat pocket to retrieve a black leather book. It took Isabella a moment to recognize it. “Oh my God,” she said, reaching out to touch the familiar inscribed title: Gresse Street Secrets. “Where—how on earth did you find it?” 

“I am a detective, you know,” Ivar said lightly. He placed it on the settee beside them, since Isabella wasn’t taking it from him. “You once described how you arrived here and where you lost the book. Yesterday you also mentioned who was around to see it—and that was the most important clue of all.” She frowned slightly at his last words, trying to understand his teasing hint. Then her hazel eyes widened. 

“Mouse.” 

“Yes. I deduced he was the culprit and went to see him. As I suspected, the boy had seen you drop the book, picked it up, and hid it, intending to sell it, of course. But then you were kind to him, and even fed him, and your generosity shamed him into not profiting from your loss. And yet he was also too embarrassed to give the book back. When I confronted him, he admitted the truth.” 

“I hope you didn’t bully him.” 

“A wolf would never think of bullying a Mouse.” He smiled at Isabella's groan, but his measuring gaze remained sober. “You are not pleased.” 

“I am. Thank you, Ivar. It’s just...” She looked down at the familiar black binding. “As long as the book was lost, I didn’t have to think about what I’d do if I could return home. I had no choice. And I was kind of okay with that. Staying here in the nineteenth century with you was... well, what we’d call a no-brainer.” Ivar chuckled affectionately. 

“I rather despair of the future of our language.” 

“Yes, you’d be pretty shocked by the way people speak. That’s one thing I don’t miss.” He stroked her hair. 

“But there are many others that you do miss.” 

“The people. My dog. Everything else, I guess the niceties of life, the technology and scientific advances. Medicine, definitely.” She leaned against him. “There’s a lot I’d miss if I left here, too,” she said, her throat tightening. “Ivar...” 

“I know, my love.” They kissed, and Isabella was both hungry for him and afraid of what would happen when they stopped. S

he kept her eyes open, not wanting to lose sight of him, and whispered against his lips: “I don’t know if I’m strong enough to leave.” 

“Isabella Lang, you have the heart of a lion. You have never given up, not on me, not on anyone you care for. You must not give up on yourself, on the life you’ve left behind.” He held her to him, bending so his mouth could kiss her throat, then her bosom, and then the delicate skin where the pulse of her heartbeat thrummed and quickened against his touch. “You’ve made my life whole,” he murmured. “Do not cut off your own for one man.” 

“It might not even work,” she said shakily. “I have no idea exactly what happened in the first place. Maybe it’s got nothing to do with the book. Maybe it was a one-way trip.” 

“If I’ve learned anything from my lycanthropy, it is that the mystical world is a balanced one. That lesson was taught to me the instant I was turned—that is what led the wolf to destroy its creator.” The firelight danced in his eyes as he watched the flames. “Reward and sacrifice; pleasure and pain; power and helplessness. The forces controlling us, those who have been affected by this strange hidden magic, seem to require such a balance. And so I do not think your journey here was meant to be an end, Isabella. You were meant to return.” 

“Maybe you were meant to come with me.” 

“Isabella, we have discussed—” She pressed her fingers on his mouth. 

“I’ll just say this once more, Ivar. I know you think you’ll ‘contaminate’ the future. But if you were to come forward, you’d be in a world that would be better for your situation. You wouldn’t believe how much stronger and safer security is! And the pain relievers are much better, too. You could solve crimes, and we’d find somewhere the wolf could run, be free, somewhere far from anyone. And maybe we’d find a way to cure your condition once and for all. And no matter what, we’d be together.” He shook his head, the doubt darkening his expression. Isabella leaned into him, holding his face and drawing it to hers. They kissed again and as their ardor increased, they sank down together to the settee, quickly, breathlessly, removing their clothing. The book fell, unheeded, to the floor. 

* * *

Isabella yawned and stretched against the soft sofa cushion. For a bleary moment, with her eyes hazy as they opened, she thought she saw the wolf padding its way toward her. Shocked, she rubbed her eyes and took another look. It was Sadie, walking in from the kitchen. She gasped and sat up, her heart pounding. 

“What—what’s going on?” She looked wildly around. It was her living room, her sofa, her vanilla-scented candles now burned out and melted in their holders. And her dog, sitting patiently, no worse for the wear, waiting for her to get up and do her job—filling the food dish. Standing, Isabella nearly tumbled right back off her feet again. She clasped a hand to her forehead, desperately trying to understand what had happened. Dimly she remembered having made love to Ivar last night— more than once, in fact. She remembered getting up in the middle of the night and walking over to stoke the dying fire. She remembered almost tripping on something on the floor and blearily picking it up out of annoyance. The picture that faced her on the page below had been the same face sleeping on the carpet a few feet away. She’d smiled affectionately and then yawned. She’d suddenly felt so tired, practically falling into Ivar's arms and shutting her eyes.... Now Isabella spun around to the sofa. 

There was nothing there. Lifting the cushions revealed nothing but some loose change and a pen. The book wasn’t here. Her eyes filled with tears. She hadn’t had a chance to say goodbye. She hadn’t meant to go. Would he know that? Would he understand? As Sadie walked up to her, she sank to her knees and embraced her dear, sweet dog whom she’d missed so much, weeping into the soft fur and wishing desperately she could have everything, this wonderful, modern life and everyone she cared for—and Ivar, too. No, that’s asking too much, she knew. Reward and sacrifice. The world demands balance. 

* * * 

Later that afternoon, Isabella was in the library and going through her daily routine, though now it all felt like a dream. Though so much had happened to her, no time had passed in this world. She certainly had a new appreciation for the thousands of tiny conveniences that technology made possible. Right now she was on a break and tapping away on a keyboard, posting a classified ad listing in vain hopes of finding another copy of Gresse Street Secrets. The fact that it was privately printed made her task fairly hopeless, but, as Ivar had reminded her last night, she didn’t easily give up. Someone approached the circulation desk and Isabella held up a finger, asking mutely for a moment. Then she looked up and her eyes widened. 

“Oh my God. Alicia!” Alicia—the modern Alicia, the one she’d met what felt like months ago but was actually just yesterday—stood before her, brown eyes examining her with concern. Isabella pushed herself off the stool and breathed heavily. “It’s really you?” The other woman nodded. 

“You read the book.” Uncertain how much to reveal, Isabella nodded. Alicia smiled warmly and tilted her head to the corridor. “Can we talk in private? I think we have a lot to discuss, and you might be doing some yelling. Understandably.” Her voice sounded unfamiliar—the accent was all wrong, not what Isabella had grown used to. Again nodding, Isabella led Alicia down the hall to the empty east meeting room. Isabella shut the door behind them. 

“Did you know?” she blurted. “Did you know what would happen?” 

“I suspected it. I chose you for that reason. Because I knew you’d put things right.” 

“I don’t... I don’t get it.” 

“Alicia Thomas—the one you knew—was one of my relatives. She was murdered by the Gresse Street Beast, who was rumored to be Ivar Lothbrok. The suspect was killed by the detective Hollis Pargeter.” 

“What? No, that’s not true! Ivar wasn’t guilty, and Alicia was fine, she was never even hurt—” 

“Yes, now. You saved them both. But originally, Hollis Pargeter went through with his plans, and even though the crimes were never solved definitively, Pargeter successfully murdered Lothbrok and tarnished his name. That’s why I sent you back. It was part of the book, Isabella. You fixed the ending, you corrected it.” Isabella was dizzy. 

“So Ivar wasn’t killed? You promise?” 

“He lived. See?” Alicia opened her bag and retrieved a very familiar book—another copy of Gresse Street Secrets. She handed it to Isabella, who grabbed it at once, though she hesitated before opening it. “Go ahead,” Alicia said softly. “Nothing will happen.” She was both relieved and disappointed. But she flipped to the end of the book and saw that there was an ending, there was a solution to the mysteries after all. And Ivar Lothbrok had lived, as had Alicia Thomas. The page was blurry through her tears. Alicia's hand covered hers. 

“I’m sorry for putting you through this, Isabella.” 

“Why did you choose me?” 

“I needed to find someone who loved mysteries. Who was smart and diligent and compassionate... I’ve watched you over the past two weeks, the way you are with people. I knew you’d be the right choice.” Alicia sighed. “Again, I’m sorry. I don’t know exactly what you experienced, but I can only imagine—” 

“No, you can’t. But I’m glad I experienced it. I would do it again, in a heartbeat.” She started to cry more heavily, and she sank to a chair, covering her face. I saved him. I have to remember that... even though I’ll never see him again, I have to remember what we were to each other. 

“Isabella,” Alicia said from behind her, worried. “Are you okay? Can I get you anything?” 

“No!” she sobbed, her shaky hands wiping her tears. “And I have a hell of a lot more questions for you, but for now, I just—I just have to have a bit of a hysterical breakdown. I think I deserve it after all this!” She continued to weep and Alicia left her alone. The room was silent except for Isabella's heartbroken sobs. And then she heard a step behind her, and felt a gentle hand on her shoulder. 

“I would sing to help calm you, dearest Isabella. But I fear my voice is not as soothing as yours.” Isabella gasped and spun around. There, looking astonishingly 21st century in an elegant three-piece suit, man bun, and smiling warmly down at her, was Ivar Lothbrok. She jumped to her feet and grabbed hold of his arms, clutching him, hardly daring to believe he was real. 

“You’re here,” she said, peering intently into his blue gaze. “It’s really you, not—not some distant relative?” 

“As sure as the moon will rise and I shall bay at it.” His mouth curled crookedly. “But I understand you have better soundproofing in this century.” Isabella fell into his arms and they kissed, her tears salty on their lips, but she couldn’t get enough of him. 

“You followed me,” she said in between kisses. “You followed me! How—what did you—” 

“I read the book, as you did, and arrived in Alicia's home. She seemed to be expecting me. Much like the Alicia Thomas I knew, she is a kind and generous hostess. She replaced my old clothes with these, and then brought me here.” He caressed her cheek. “To find you.” 

“I thought you wouldn’t come, I thought I’d never see you again!” 

“I know.” Ivar raked his hands through her hair, pulling her close again. “Whenever we discussed the subject, I could not envision a life in the future. It was only when you left that I realized that there was no future, no present, without you.” Ivar and Isabella continued embracing each other—embracing the promise of the unknown, and the challenge of solving life’s mysteries whatever they might hold. Though the moon would always rise and set, they vowed to stand, bathed in its pale blue light, as one.


End file.
